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DELIGHT  and  POWER 
IN  SPEECH 

A  UNIVERSAL  DRAMATIC  READER 

BY  _,_ 

LEONARD  G.  NATTKEMPER 


Polytechnic  High  School,  Long  Beich,  Ca-. 

Formerly  Professor  of  Public  Speaking, 

University  of  Southern  California 

AND 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES,  LlTT.  D. 

Author  of  "California,  Romantic  and  Beautiful," 

"Arizona,  the  Wonderland,"  "In  and  Out 

of  the  Old  Missions  of  California," 

"Reclaiming  the  Arid  West," 

Etc.,  Etc. 


A  New,  Complete  and  Practical  Method  of 

Securing   Delight  and   Efficiency   in 

Silent  and  Oral   Reading  and 

Private  and  Public  Speech 


TOGETHER  WITH   A  LARGE  AND  VARIED  COLLECTION 
OF   CAREFULLY   CHOSEN 

SELECTIONS  IN  PROSE  AND  POETRY, 

WITH    CHAPTERS    ON    "THE   CULTIVATION    OF    THE 
MEMORY"    AND    "AFTER   DINNER    SPEAKING" 


THE  RADIANT  LIFE  PRESS 

Pasadena,  California 

1919 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  The  Radiant  Life  Press 


J.   F.   TAPLEY   CO. 
NEW    YORK 


INTRODUCTION 

Speech  is  one  of  God's  greatest  gifts  to  man,  yet,  compara- 
tively speaking,  how  few  there  are  whose  speech  is  pleasing 
to  hear,  clear  and  understandable,  impressive  and  stimulative 
to  action. 

From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  every  person,  perforce,  uses 
speech,  just  as  he  eats,  breathes,  drinks,  sleeps.  It  is  one  of 
the  important,  ever  exercised  functions  of  life.  Upon  it  all 
our  social,  business  and  professional  intercourse  is  based. 
Without  it,  life  as  we  know  it,  would  be  impossible.  With  it, 
developed  to  its  natural,  normal,  proper,  and  readily  attain- 
able efficiency,  there  are  few  limits  to  what  man  may  aspire 
to  attain. 

Recognizing  to  the  full  the  truth  of  the  aphorism  that  "the 
things  we  enjoy  doing  are  the  things  we  do  best,"  it  is  the 
purpose  of  this  book  so  to  present  its  subject  as  to  create  in 
its  readers  a  firm  resolve  to  so  thoroughly  enjoy  good  reading 
that  they  will  do  it  well. 

The  aim  is  twofold:  first,  to  stimulate  a  natural  desire  on 
the  part  of  the  student  for  the  proper  use  of  voice  and  body 
in  the  oral  interpretation  of  literature ;  and  second,  to  present 
a  natural  and  practical  scheme  for  the  attainment  of  this  end. 

After  a  number  of  years  of  experience  and  observation  the 
authors  have  come  to  believe  that  when  even  the  most  diffident 
pupil  has  once  had  aroused  in  him  a  real  enjoyment  in  the 
acts'  of  speaking  and  reading  aloud,  he  is  destined  to  become 
not  only  an  intelligent,  but  an  intelligible  reader. 

It  is  no  longer  necessary  to  argue  for  the  recognition  of 
vocal  expression  as  a  worthy  and  definite  part  of  the  curricu- 

iii 

■"  487.1  r 


iv  INTRODUCTION 

lum  of  High  School  and  College.  Training  in  the  spoken 
word  is  to-day,  as  never  before,  looked  upon  as  a  prerequisite 
to  professional  and  business  success.  Henry  Ward  Beecher, 
speaking  of  the  rightful  place  of  speech  culture,  says : 

A  living  force  that  brings  to  itself  all  the  resources  of  the  imagina- 
tion, all  the  inspirations  of  feeling,  all  that  is  influential  in  body,  in 
voice,  in  eye,  in  gesture,  in  posture,  in  the  whole  animated  man,  is  in 
strict  analogy  with  the  divine  thought  and  the  divine  arrangement  .  .  . 
and  so  regarded,  it  should  take  its  place  among  the  highest  departments 
of  education. 

The  majority  of  mankind,  however,  seems  to  feel  that  beau- 
tiful, powerful,  and  effective  speech  or  the  ability  to  read  well 
and  acceptably  is  the  gift  or  attainment  of  the  chosen  few. 
Nothing  can  be  further  from  the  fact.  Beauty  is  the  normal 
condition  in  the  universe  in  every  realm  of  nature,  and  is 
attained  by  the  simple  effort  of  each  thing  to  express  itself 
in  natural  and  spontaneous  fashion.  Likewise,  clear,  impres- 
sive, delight-giving,  thought-provoking  speech,  and  the  power 
to  read  well  are  as  easy  to  attain,  and  may  be  obtained  in  the 
same  natural,  spontaneous,  unaffected  manner. 

Unfortunately  in  the  past  the  teachers  of  these  simple  and 
natural  arts  befogged  the  whole  subject  by  their  artificialities, 
formalities,  conventionalities  and  pretenses.  Their  text-books 
were  rilled  with  unnecessary  and  injurious  rules,  mandates,  and 
requirements.  And  thus  the  pseudo-science  of  "Elocution," 
with  its  stilted  expressions,  its  fixed  gestures,  its  artificial  in- 
flections, came  into  being.  And  the  students  who  were  eager 
to  acquire  the  mastery  of  effective  speech, — than  which  there 
is  no  greater  accomplishment, — were  intimidated,  frightened 
away  by  the  multiplicity  of  rules  and  theories. 

Let  us  be  thankful  that  the  day  is  dawning  when  instruction 
in  correct  spoken  language  comes  through  the  easy  avenues  of 
naturalness,   spontaneity,    simplicity   and   normal   enthusiasm. 


INTRODUCTION  v 

Too  long  have  we  been  discouraged  by  the  glib  aphorism  that 
there  is  no  easy  road  to  learning.  It  is  not  true,  if  by  learning 
we  mean  the  attainment  of  the  real  intellectual  things,  instead 
of  the  sham,  pretentious  things  that  men  in  $he  past  too  often 
have  called  learning. 

The  authors  of  this  book  venture  the  affirmation  that  hardly 
one  of  the  great  readers,  public  speakers  of  power,  or  orators 
of  influence  have  ever  taken  a  lesson  in  the  so-called  art  of 
"elocution"  or  heeded  any  of  its  straight- jacket  rules.  Daniel 
Webster  has  well  expressed  the  difference  between  the  man 
with  a  heart  full  of  burning  thoughts  demanding  utterance, 
and  the  one  with  a  mouth  full  of  carefully  chosen  words,  and 
exquisitely  modulated  phrases,  meaning  little  or  nothing  to  the 
soul  of  him: 

True  eloquence,  indeed,  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be 
brought  from  afar.  Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will 
toil  in  vain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshaled  in  every  way,  but 
they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject,  and 
in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense  expression,  the* pomp  of 
declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  it, — they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes, 
if  it  comes  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or 
the  bursting  forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native 
force.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments  and 
studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  disgust  men,  when  their  own 
lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  country  hang 
on  the  decision  of  the  hour.  Then  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhet- 
oric is  in  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory  contemptible.  Even  genius 
itself  then  feels  rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of  higher  qual- 
ities. Then  patriotism  is  eloquent;  then  self-devotion  is  eloquent. 
The  clear  conception,  out-running  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high 
purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue, 
beaming  from  the  eye,  informing  every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole 
man  onward,  right  onward  to  his  object, — this,  this  is  eloquence;  or, 
rather,  it  is  something  greater  and  higher  than  all  eloquence:  it  is 
action, — noble,  sublime,  God-like  action. 

The  natively-eloquent  learned  to  speak  with  power  because 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

they  had  a  message,  because  they  felt,  were  deeply  moved, 
saw  a  vision,  experienced  a  deep  emotion,  had  a  thought  they 
strongly  desired  to  communicate  to  others,  and  with  a  few 
fundamental,  simple,  readily-grasped  principles  before  them, 
generally  unconsciously  exercised,  they  said  their  say,  and  con- 
vinced the  world. 

To  state  these  basic  principles  with  the  simplicity  and  nat- 
uralness they  call  for,  and  to  show  the  pleasure  and  power  that 
come  from  their  development  is  the  purpose  of  the  authors  of 
this  book. 

By  following  these  self-evident  steps  one  who  has  some- 
thing worth  saying,  whose  heart  is  deeply  stirred,  will  become 
a  good  reader,  a  fluent,  convincing  public  speaker  with  little  or 
no  conscious  effort.  Just  as  a  few  simple  exercises,  regularly 
persisted  in,  produce  glowing,  radiant  health  and  physical 
strength,  so  will  these  simple,  enjoyable  exercises,  kept  ever 
in  mind  and  daily  used,  bring  to  one  the  glowing  delight  of 
reading  to  oneself  with  appreciation  and  intelligence,  reading 
publicly*  with  intelligibility  and  effectiveness,  and  speaking  to 
a  large  or  small  audience  with  convincing  power. 

The  Selections  of  the  Book 

While  there  are  many  and  varied  text-books  that  deal  with 
this  important  subject  in  a  more  or  less  modern  fashion,  they 
all  use,  to  a  greater  or  lesser  extent,  the  same  old  selections 
from  well-known  authors  and  orators,  which,  unfortunately, 
were  used  by  the  teachers  of  the  stilted,  artificial,  sophomoric 
and  altogether  discredited  "elocution."  Hence,  the  authors 
and  editors  of  this  volume  have  made  an  almost  entirely  new 
choice  of  Selections  for  illustrative  purposes  and  for  public 
reading.  But  few  will  be  found  that  have  been  used  else- 
where. References  are  made  to  the  writings  of  standard  au- 
thors which  may  be  obtained  in  any  ordinary  library,  but  a 
large  percentage  of  the  prose  and  poetry  of  this  collection  is 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

taken  from  the  more  modern  and  popular  American  writers. 

It  is  neither  the  intent  nor  the  desire  of  the  editors  to  limit 
the  field  of  thought  of  their  readers  or  students  to  any  one 
field  of  English  literature.  Our  aim  is  quite  the  contrary. 
We  would  so  emphasize  the  worth  of  the  literature  of  the 
West,  however,  that  those  who  have  hitherto  deemed  that  "no 
good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth,"  may  be  led  to  search  for  lit- 
erary good  in  other  Nazareths. 

Literature  is  as  wide  as  civilized  human  life,  and  according 
to  the  intensity  with  which  life  is  lived,  and  the  desire  of  those 
who  live  to  express  that  intensity,  will  literature  of  strength 
and  power  be  produced.  The  West  lives  intensely,  rapidly, 
urgently,  individually,  hence  its  literature  is  intense,  strong 
and  powerful. 

Just  as  sure  as  history  records  the  existence  of  an  early 
West — a  West  where  the  gun  and  knife  settled  men's  heated 
controversies,  a  West  where,  for  many  years,  there  was  a 
dearth  of  woman's  soft  voice  and  tender  smile — just  so  sure 
are  the  writings  of  the  Western  poets,  philosophers  and  story- 
tellers of  this  period  a  vital  part  of  our  early  American  lit- 
erature. The  literature  of  the  West,  as  with  the  literature  of 
any  country,  needs  only  be  a  true,  sincere,  worthy  expression 
}f  the  life  it  professes  to  portray. 

The  greater  one's  knowledge  of  the  literatures  of  the  various 
peoples  of  the  world,  the  deeper  one's  sympathies  become,  and 
the  easier  it  is  to  grasp  the  divine  principles  of  human  broth- 
erhood. 

The  authors  also  wish  to  call  attention  to  what  they  deem 
another  important  feature  of  their  work.  It  will  be  seen  from 
the  outline  plan  of  the  book  that  it  is  divided  into  four  parts, 
viz.:  Intelligible  Reading,  Sympathetic  Reading,  Melodious 
Reading,  Oratorical  Reading. 

The  selections  have  been  arranged,  in  the  main,  under  these 
respective  headings,  that  they  may  accompany  the  explana- 


via  INTRODUCTION 

tions,  serve  to  elucidate  the  principles  laid  down,  and  afford 
copious  examples  for  their  practice. 

There  is  also  an  important  and  practical  chapter  on  the 
Development  and  Use  of  the  Memory. 

That  this  book  will  fill  a  long  felt  and  continuously  ex- 
pressed want  on  the  part  of  teachers  of  Oral  Reading  is  the 
confident  assurance  of  the  editors. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  technical  part  of  the  book  the 
authors  have  been  immeasurably  aided  by  their  large  and  per- 
sonal knowledge  of,  and  acquaintance  or  friendship  with,  lead- 
ing orators  in  politics,  the  law,  the  church,  on  the  lecture  plat- 
form, and  at  public  dinners  and  other  functions.  They  have 
also  availed  themselves  of  the  same  knowledge  of  the  great 
interpreters  in  the  theater.  A  long,  intimate  study  of  the 
essential  characteristics  which  made  for  the  success  of  many 
masters  in  the  art  of  using  the  spoken  word  has  been  made. 
Thus  the  authors  are  assured  that  no  factor  that  leads  towards, 
and  assures,  success  in  dramatic  or  private  reading  or  speak- 
ing has  been  ignored.  All  academic  and  purely  theoretical 
matter  has  been  rigorously  excluded. 

The  old  methods  of  sophomoric  oratory  are  gone,  never  to 
return.  Men  and  women  of  purpose  have  learned  that  sim- 
plicity, directness,  naturalness,  are  the  most  potent  factors  in 
conveying  their  ideas  to  others.  It  is  gratifying  to  know  that 
modern  methods  of  teaching  Oral  Reading  and  Private  and 
Public  Speaking  seek  to  emphasize  these  fundamental  princi- 
ples and  reduce  to  the  lowest  possible  minimum  all  introduc- 
tions of  the  artificial. 

Leonard  G.  Nattkemper, 
George  Wharton  James. 


PART  ONE 

Intelligent  and  Intelligible  Reading 

FIRST  STEP.  Getting  the  author's  thought.  Discussing  IN- 
TELLIGENT reading.  Giving  material  for  training  the  pupil  in 
getting  the  thought  from  the  printed  page.  Reading  at  sight  and 
reproducing  in  his  own  words.  Making  outlines  of  simple  selec- 
tions, principally  prose  selections. 

SECOND  STEP.  Discussion  of  INTELLIGIBLE  reading. 
Two-fold  purpose:  Thought-getting  and  thought- giving  in  the 
author's  words.  General  and  Special  preparation.  Exercises  in 
Enunciation,  Pronunciation,  Articulation,  Vocabulary. 


ix 


CHAPTER  I 

READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH 

It  is  the  first  and  last  object  of  education  "to  teach  people 
how  to  think."  When  we  consider  the  vast  wealth  of  great 
thoughts  felt  and  expressed  by  great  men  of  all  times  and 
recorded  for  us  in  books,  should  we  not  give  serious  reflection 
upon  what  we  read  and  how  we  read  ? 

This  book  has  to  do  primarily  with  how  rightly  to  speak 
thoughts  and  feelings  hidden  in  great  literature — yet  it  is 
strictly  in  keeping  with  this  purpose  to  give  some  attention  to 
silent  reading  as  distinguished  from  oral  reading.  For  how 
can  one  hope  to  become  an  intelligible  reader  who  is*  not  first 
an  intelligent  one?  This  does  not  argue  that  an  intelligent 
reader  is  likewise  intelligible,  for  the  mere  comprehension  of 
the  author's  thought  and  mood  does  not  in  itself  insure  a 
proper  or  adequate  oral  rendition  of  the  same.  In  this  sense 
we  think  of  the  former  act  as  a  necessity,  and  of  the  latter 
as  an  accomplishment. 

Yet  in  this  twentieth  century  we  can  hardly  make  the  above 
limitations,  for  he  who  is  to  become  most  useful  to  himself 
and  to  others,  must  not  only  be  able  to  understand  what  he 
reads,  but  must,  at  the  same  time,  be  able  effectively  to  com- 
municate it  to  others.  The  latter  accomplishment,  of  course, 
necessitates  systematic  drill  and  practice,  and  the  greater  por- 
tion of  this  book  is  devoted  to  a  series  of  lessons  for  carrying 
on  such  a  course  of  instruction.  In  this  immediate  chapter, 
however,  we  are  concerned  more  particularly  with  reading  in 
general. 

1 


2  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

One  of  tht  first  steps  toward  fitting  oneself  to  become  an 
impressive  reader  and  speaker  is  to  acquire  a  real  love  for  the 
bv.st  literature.  The  only  way  to  do  this  is  by  making  the 
acquaintance  of  great  authors,  and  the  best  way  to  come  into 
companionship  with  noble  writers  is  conscientiously  to  study 
their  works.  Because,  at  first  glance,  an  author  may  seem 
obscure,  too  many  are  fain  to  put  the  book  aside,  or  substitute 
for  it  one  that  does  not  require  any  effort  to  enjoy.  But,  after 
all,  is  it  not  the  books  over  which  we  struggle  most  that  yield 
us  the  most  joy  and  the  most  good?  When  once  we  form  the 
friendship  of  great  books  and  catch  their  vision,  we  cannot 
help  but  pattern  our  lives,  in  a  very  large  measure,  in  accord- 
ance with  those  fundamental  and  lasting  principles  of  right  liv- 
ing and  right  thinking  which  characterize  the  writings  of  all 
great  men  and  women.     Their  ideals  become  our  ideals. 

It  seems,  therefore,  that  if  we  hope  to  become  agreeable 
speakers  or  conversationalists  we  must,  at  the  outset,  realize  it 
as  imperative  that  we  make  ourselves  familiar  with  the  writ- 
ings, in  verse  and  prose,  of  noble  minds.  It  is  by  this  close 
association  with  great  people,  who  have  not  only  understood 
and  felt  the  deeper  meanings  of  life,  but  who  have  put  their 
experiences  and  knowledge  into  permanent  literature,  that  we 
may  have  our  smaller  souls  kindled  to  glow  brighter  and 
longer.  It  is  by  giving  an  attentive  ear  to  the  voices  that  call 
to  us  from  our  bookshelves  that  our  finer  sensibilities  are 
quickened  to  fuller  appreciation  of  nature,  of  art,  and  of  the 
joy  of  living. 

We  must  realize  that  training  in  the  development  of  oral 
expression  is  primarily  a  cultural  course,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
a  practical  one.  Many  people  would  invert  the  order  of  this 
statement,  but  all  are  agreed  that  correct  vocal  expression  aids 
immeasurably  in  the  development  of  taste  and  refinement,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  affords,  in  many  ways,  practical  assistance 
in  daily  living. 


READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH  3 

Pure  water  is  more  likely  to  be  drawn  from  a  deep  well  than 
from  a  shallow  pool.  So,  also,  he  who  possesses  depth  of 
feeling  and  appreciation  of  noble  thoughts  and  pure  emotions 
is  more  likely  to  give  adequate  and  satisfactory  oral  expres- 
sion to  them  than  he  whose  feeling  is  shallow  and  indifferent. 
Experience  teaches  that  nothing  gives  greater  aid  to  a  spon- 
taneous, irresistible  flow  of  thought,  revealing,  through  voice 
and  body,  the  finer  conceptions  of  the  human  soul,  than  a  con- 
stant familiarity  with  the  deep  wells  of  the  best  literature. 

By  listening  eagerly  to  the  best  words  great  men  of  all  times 
have  said  to  the  world,  we  make  our  own  natures  responsive. 
Then,  in  greater  or  lesser  measure,  as  readers  or  speakers,  we 
translate  or  interpret  these  words  for  the  enjoyment  or  uplift 
of  others. 

How  can  the  man,  the  woman,  of  limited  time  and  means, 
proceed  so  as  to  find  these  treasures  of  literature? 

Let  us  here  set  down,  briefly  and  clearly,  what  seems  to  us 
the  most  enjoyable  and  natural  method  to  use.  In  the  first 
place,  ask  yourself  if  you  are  willing  to  be  a  hard  worker, 
self-sacrificing  and  humble.  Unless  you  are,  you  will  find  that 
great  spirits  are  slow  to.  share  with  you  their  richest  treasures. 
You  must  first  make  yourself  worthy  before  you  can  expect 
to  enter  into  their  sanctum.     In  the  words  of  Ruskin: 

You  must  be  willing  to  work  hard  to  find  the  hidden  meaning  of  the 
author.  Ask  yourself,  "Am  I  inclined  to  work  as  an  Australian  miner 
would?  Are  my  pick-axes  and  shovels  in  good  order,  and  am  I  in 
good  trim  myself,  my  sleeves  well  up  to  my  elbows,  and  my  breath 
good,  and  my  temper?"  .  .  .  The  metal  you  are  in  search  of  being 
the  author's  mind  or  meaning,  his  words  are  as  the  rock  which  you 
have  to  crush  and  smelt  in  order  to  get  at  it.  And  your  pick-axes  are 
your  own  care,  wit,  and  learning;  your  smelting  furnace  is  your  own 
thoughtful  soul.  Do  not  hope  to  get  at  any  good  author's  meaning 
without  those  tools  and  that  fire ;  often  you  will  need  sharpest,  finest 
chiseling,  and  patientest  fusing,  before  you  can  gather  one  grain  of 
the  metal. 


4  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then,  too,  you  must  be  patient.  An  untrained  reader  is, 
as  it  were,  wandering  in  a  great  forest  where  he  sees  many 
paths,  but  he  knows  not  which  to  take.  If  he  pursue  a  wrong 
path  the  first,  second  or  the  third  time,  he  should  not  lose  hope, 
but  seek  again  and  again.  By  such  experiences  he  is  sharpen- 
ing his  faculty  of  discrimination,  and  erelong  can,  in  a  brief 
space,  detect  which  paths  he  should  follow.  No  one  but  your- 
self can  prescribe  rightly  a  course  of  reading  best  suited  to 
your  particular  needs.  It  must  be  a  voluntary  search  on  your 
own  part,  and  an  enjoyable  one,  if  you  are  to  get  the  most 
from  it. 

But  here  enters  a  serious  consideration:  Is  what  I  enjoy 
most  the  best  for  me?  The  answer  is  Yes  and  No!  Yes, 
if  you  enjoy  most  what  appeals  to  the  best  in  you;  no,  if  you 
enjoy  most  what  in  your  heart  you  know  appeals  to  what  is 
the  worst  in  you.  Therefore,  the  important  question  for  you 
to  answer  is — does  this  book,  article,  essay  or  poem  merely 
interest  me,  or  does  it  appeal  to  the  best  in  me? 

Henry  Van  Dyke  expresses  the  matter  perfectly: 

The  person  who  wants  to  grow,  turns  to  books  as  a  means  of  puri- 
fying his  tastes,  deepening  his  feelings,  broadening  his  sympathies,  and 
enhancing  his  joy  of  life.  Literature  he  loves  because  it  is  the  most 
humane  of  the  arts.  Its  forms  and  processes  interest  him  as  expres- 
sions of  the  human  striving  towards  clearness  of  thought,  purity  of 
emotion,  and  harmony  of  action  with  the  ideal.  The  culture  of  a 
finer,  fuller  manhood  is  what  this  reader  seeks.  He  is  looking  for 
the  books  in  which  the  inner  meanings  of  nature  and  life  are  trans- 
lated into  language  of  distinction  and  charm,  touched  with  the  human 
personality  of  the  author,  and  embodied  in  forms  of  permanent  inter- 
est and  power.  This  is  literature.  And  the  reader  who  sets  his  affec- 
tions on  these  things  enters  the  world  of  books  as  one  made  free  of  a 
city  of  wonders,  a  garden  of  fair  delights.  He  reads  not  from  a 
sense  of  duty,  not  from  a  constraint  of  fashion,  not  from  an  ambition 
of  learning,  but  from  a  thirst  of  pleasure ;  because  he  feels  that  pleasure 
of  the  highest  kind, — a  real  joy  in  the  perception  of  things  lucid,  lumin- 
ous, symmetrical,  musical,  sincere,  passionate,  and  profound, — such  pleas- 


READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH  5 

ure  restores  the  heart  and  quickens  it,  makes  it  stronger  to  endure  the 
ills  of  life  and  more  fertile  in  all  good  fruits  of  cheerfulness,  courage 
and  love.  This  reader  for  vital  pleasure  has  less  need  of  maps  and 
directories,  rules  and  instructions,  than  of  companionship.  A  criti- 
cism that  will  go  with  him  in  his  reading,  and  open  up  new  meaning 
in  familiar  things,  and  touch  the  secrets  of  beauty  and  power,  and 
reveal  the  hidden  relations  of  literature  to  life,  and  help  him  to  see 
the  reasonableness  of  every  true  grace  of  style,  the  sincerity  of  every 
real  force  of  passion, — a  criticism  that  penetrates,  illuminates,  and 
appreciates,  making  the  eyes  clearer  and  the  heart  more  sensitive  to 
perceive  the  living  spirit  in  good  books, — that  is  the  companionship 
which  will  be  most  helpful,  and  most  grateful  to  the  gentle  reader. 


CHAPTER  II 

EFFECTIVE  SPEECH 

There  are  four  definite  steps  in  the  mastery  of  effective 
speech : 

It  must  be  Intelligible 
It  must  be  Sympathetic. 
It  must  be  Melodious 
It  must  be  Forceful 

In  seeking  to  accomplish  these  four  aims,  the  pupil  will  not 
only  increase  his  culture  but  his  practical  mental  power  as  well. 

The  first  step  has  to  do  with  whatever  makes  understandable 
what  he  has  to  say.  But  before  he  can  be  intelligible  in  ad- 
dress, he  must  be  an  intelligent  reader.  He  must  train  himself 
to  master  the  real  meaning  of  words.  This  means  taking  in — 
comprehending — and  translating  the  thought  of  others.  This 
is  an  important  part  in  accomplishing  the  first  step.  The  mind 
must  be  trained  quickly  and  accurately  to  comprehend  the 
printed  page. 

The  Basis  for  Good  Oral  Reading 

Grasp  this  idea  firmly:  Before  one  may  hope  to  read  in- 
telligibly, he  must  first  be  an  intelligent  reader.  You  cannot 
express  outwardly  what  you  have  not  received  and  do  not  feel 
inwardly.  Therefore  the  basis  of  good  oral  reading  is  under- 
standing— intelligent  silent  reading.  Some  one  has  well  said, 
"Unless  a  child  can  read,  he  cannot  be  educated. "  How  few 
can  read  at  sight  a  short  passage  and  then  close  the  book  and 

6 


EFFECTIVE  SPEECH  7 

relate  its  context.     Why  is  this  the  case?     Because  the  pupil 
has  not  been  properly  trained  to  read. 

The  Basis  for  Good  Silent  Reading 

In  the  study  of  the  printed  word  we  must  remember  that  its 
real  meaning  depends  altogether  upon  its  relation  to  other 
words  in  the  same  group.  For  instance,  the  word  "fire"  does 
not  mean  the  same  thing  at  all  times.  The  real  meaning  of 
this  word  depends  upon  its  kinship  with  other  members  of  the 
same  group.  When  we  say,  "The  house  is  on  fire,"  the  word 
"fire"  means  an  altogether  different  thing  from  what  it  means 
when  we  say,  "There  is  need  of  a  fire  in  the  stove  this  morn- 
ing." We  must  continually  take  care  that  we  do  not  isolate 
words,  but  that  we  get  their  associated  meaning.  For  too 
long  a  time  in  our  public  schools  the  pupils  have  been  taught 
to  read  words  and  not  ideas  or  thoughts.  They  have  been 
taught  to  read  word  by  word  and  not  group  by  group.  For 
instance,  the  most  elementary  pupils  will  read  as  follows: 
"The — cat — can — run — and — play — with — the — ball."  The 
grouping  is  altogether  overlooked.  The  children  are  concen- 
trating their  attention  upon  single  or  isolated  words  instead  of 
upon  thought  groups  made  up  of  several  words  as  follows: 
"The  cat  can  run — and  play  with  the  ball." 

Get  the  Author's  Thought 

Whatever  one  reads,  he  must  first  determine  for  what  pur- 
pose he  is  reading.  A  definite  aim  or  end  in  view  must  be 
had  to  serve  as  a  motive  power.  The  pupil  who  can  relate 
the  successive  events  in  a  narrative  after  having  read  it  care- 
fully, has  trained  his  memory.  But  memory  training  is  not 
the  highest  aim  or  end.  The  thing  of  paramount  importance 
is:  What  is  the  application  of  the  author's  meaning?  The 
value  lies  in  what  use  the  student  can  make  of  the  knowledge. 


8  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

This  act  of  getting  the  author's  thought  draws  upon  the  stu- 
dent's stock  of  experience.  All  new  matter  comes  to  the 
pupil  in  terms  of  his  past  experiences.  The  task  of  the  teacher 
is  to  aid  him  in  identifying  himself  with  the  lesson  taught  by 
the  author,  so  that  he  can  make  practical  use  of  it. 

We  Are  Not  Studying  Style 

In  this  present  step  in  the  development  of  the  student  in 
effective  speech  the  style  of  an  author  is  nothing  more  than  a 
means  to  an  end  and  not  the  end  itself.  The  test  for  the  pupil 
is  to  see  if  he  can  put  in  his  own  words  the  vital  meaning  of 
the  author.  It  should  not  be  his  purpose  to  attempt  to  im- 
prove on  the  writer's  style.  It  is  true  that  some  of  the  world's 
greatest  literary  expressions  would  lose  their  highest  signifi- 
cance if  put  in  any  other  than  their  original  form.  This  ap- 
plies especially  to  verse  form,  for  here  the  rhythmic  move- 
ment is  an  inseparable  element  in  the  full  expression  of  the 
idea.  Some  one  has  well  said :  "Style  grows  to  the  thought 
as  the  sea-shell  to  its  occupant."  But  at  this  point  the  aim 
is  not  to  teach  the  pupil  the  mechanics  of  literature.  He  must 
be  taught  to  think  for  himself  and  use  the  knowledge  he 
gains  so  that  it  will  be  valuable  in  his  own  life. 

Three  Definite  Aims  to  Gain  Knowledge 

Let  us  keep  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  pupil  is  continually 
seeking  information  which  will  help  him  to  live  better.  He 
is  constantly  trying  to  increase  his  cultural  and  practical  pow- 
ers. Of  course  book  learning  does  not  furnish  all,  but  its  con- 
tribution is  immeasurable  in  its  importance.  Hence  the  pupil 
must  learn  to  master  the  printed  word  as  well  as  the  spoken 
word.  Here  are  three  definite  ends  or  aims  to  serve  as  mo- 
tive power  in  getting  the  thought  of  the  author: 


EFFECTIVE  SPEECH  9 

First,  the  student  must  seek  ideas  and  not  words. 
Second,  he  must  seek  to  classify  and  organize  facts. 
Third,  he  must  seek  to  turn  his  knowledge  to  some  use. 

Each  Aim  Illustrated 

To  illustrate  the  first  aim,  let  us  take  the  following  lines 
from  Hamlet: 

Give  me  that  man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  aye,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
As  I  do  thee. 

Shakespeare  wished  to  point  out  the  blessedness  of  that  vir- 
tue, Independence.  It  is  of  little  consequence  to  the  pupil  in 
this  first  step  of  his  growth  to  make  a  comparison  between 
Shakespeare's  method  of  expressing  this  truth,  with  that  of 
Elbert  Hubbard,  who,  speaking  of  Rowan,  that  man  who  de- 
livered an  important  message  to  Garcia  in  the  jungles  of  Cuba 
when  we  had  decided  to  go  to  war  with  Spain,  said : 

By  the  Eternal !  there  is  a  man  whose  form  should  be  cast  in  death- 
less bronze  and  the  statue  placed  in  every  college  of  the  land.  It  is 
not  book-learning  young  men  need,  nor  instructions  about  this  and  that, 
but  a  stiffening  of  the  vertebrae  which  will  cause  them  to  be  loyal  to  a 
trust,  to  act  promptly,  concentrate  their  energies ;  do  the  thing — Carry 
a  message  to  Garcia ! 

Is  not  the  aim  in  both  cases  for  the  pupil  to  get  the  idea 
which  the  authors  wish  to  impress  upon  his  mind?  In  other 
words,  the  authors  are  not  simply  writing  for  art's  sake,  as 
so  many  would  have  us  believe.  The  pupil  must  get  the  au- 
thor's messages,  so  that  they  will  help  him  in  life,  to  be  both 
independent  or  free  from  passion,  and  reliable  or  dependable 
in  whatever  he  undertakes. 

Let  us  advance  to  the  second  step:  The  classification  and 
organization  of   facts  mean  more  than  the  simple  process  of 


10  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

orderly  arrangement.  This  has  to  do  with  translating  what 
the  author  presents  to  the  pupil  in  terms  of  his  past  experience. 
This  is  the  process  of  judging  values.  Before  we  pigeon-hole 
new  information,  we  pass  judgment  upon  its  relative  impor- 
tance. The  pupil  has  experienced  the  value  of  punctuality, 
courage,  optimism,  etc.  Now,  when  any  new  truth  comes  un- 
der his  observation,  it  is  not  turned  into  knowledge  until  it 
has  gone  through  his  mental  gristmill.  What  he  hears,  or 
sees,  or  feels,  is  not  usable  until  it  has  been  fitted  into  its  par- 
ticular niche,  and  this  fitting  process  is  brought  about  by  liken- 
ing the  unknown  to  the  known. 

This  brings  us  to  the  third  step.  Frederick  Harrison  has 
said :  "Man's  business  here  is  to  know  for  the  sake  of  living, 
not  to  live  for  the  sake  of  knowing."  There  is  no  better 
way  of  expressing  the  third  step  in  the  development  of  the  stu- 
dent in  intelligent  reading.  After  he  has  learned  to  grasp  the 
author's  thought  readily,  and  then  so  reacts  upon  it  that  it  be- 
comes a  part  of  his  very  being,  his  next  step  is  to  find  an  open 
market  for  the  sale  of  his  knowledge.  This  does  not  mean 
to  sell  for  money  in  the  narrow  sense,  but  to  put  his  under- 
standing into  actual  daily  life. 


CHAPTER  III 

INVENTORY  OF  SPEECH  EFFICIENCY 

Before  proceeding  further,  let  us  estimate  our  speech  effi- 
ciency. Every  conscientious  person  can  determine  the  strong 
and  weak  points  of  his  speech  by  asking  himself  a  few  ques- 
tions. Some,  more  sensitive  than  others,  will  very  likely  mag- 
nify their  weaknesses  and  minimize  their  commendable  qual- 
ities. Be  that  as  it  may,  the  vast  majority  will  give  a  fair 
rating  to  both  good  and  bad  vocal  habits. 

This  personal  consultation  with  yourself  may  take  a  long  or 
a  short  time.  Some  are  quick  to  see  faults  in  themselves — 
and  probably  slow  td  correct  them ;  still  others  are  slow  to  see 
their  own  errors  and  probably  never  will  correct  them;  but 
all  careful  and  honest  students  will  discover  at  once  where 
they  are  lacking  in  the  proper  management  of  voice,  and  will 
proceed  to  overcome  their  difficulties. 

In  rating  speech  efficiency  it  is  well  to  make  use  of  the  com- 
mon questionnaire  plan.  The  questions  fall  under  two  sep- 
arate heads,  namely,  the  Knowing  and  the  Doing.- 

The  Knowing 

1.  Do  I  realize  that  I  use  my  voice  almost  constantly? 

2.  Do  I  realize  that  success  in  business  or  society  depends 
largely  upon  the  convincing  power  of  speech  ? 

3.  Do  I  realize  how  much  of  my  speech  is  of  no  avail  ? 

4.  Do  1  realize  the  vital  importance  of  inflection  and  the 
influence  it  has  upon  those  who  hear  me  ? 

11 


12  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

5.  Do  I  realize  the  great  delight  that  comes  through  the 
mastery  of  correct  vocal  usage? 

6.  Do  I  realize  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  have  a  tired  throat 
at  the  end  of  the  day? 

7.  Do  I  realize  that  in  a  very  large  degree  a  pleasing  per- 
sonality depends  upon  a  pleasing  voice? 

8.  Do  I  realize  that  by  attaining  convincing  power  of  speech 
I  am  promoting  my  efficiency  ? 

The  Doing 

1.  Do  I  talk  more  than  is  necessary? 

2.  Da  I  pitch  my  voice  too  high? 

3.  Do  I  speak  with  a  tense,  set  jaw  and  use  a  hard,  metallic 
tone? 

4.  Do  I  talk  in  my  throat  instead  of  in  my  mouth  ? 

5.  Do  I  continually  talk  on  the  same  key? 

6.  Do"  I  talk  too  fast,  or  too  slow,  or  too  loud,  or  too  low? 

7.  Do  I  use  my  voice  as  a  medium  by  which  I  give  vent  to 
anger  or  displeasure? 

8.  Do  I  speak  quietly  and  softly,  and  thus  indicate  culture 
and  refinement? 

9.  Do  I  speak  loudly  in  order  to  be  persuasive? 

10.  Do  I  attract  undue  attention  to  my  speech? 

11.  Do  I  enunciate  with  clearness  and  precision? 

12.  Do  I  harmonize  tone  with  mood? 

More  items  could  be  placed  under  these  two  headings,  but 
the  above  are  sufficient  to  bring  the  student  face  to  face  with 
his  speech  difficulties.  We  must  know  wherein  we  lack 
speech  efficiency  before  we  can  remedy  the  lack.  The  follow- 
ing chapters  present  adequate  exercises  for  needed  improve- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ORAL  READING 

If  the  pupil  is  to  enjoy  logical  and  consistent  development 
in  expression,  he  must  be  taught  along  psychological  lines. 
Teachers  should  never  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  what  is  good 
for  one  pupil  is  not  always  good  for  another.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  set  down  a  set  of  rules  which  will  govern  alike  all 
pupils.  Only  that  teacher  is  worthy  of  the  name  who  recog- 
nizes that  every  pupil  presents  more  or  less  a  separate  problem. 

Teacher's  First  Great  Task 

The  teacher's  first  important  task  is  to  render  the  pupil 
rightly  disposed.  Some  pupils  are  at  once  extremely  anxious 
to  be  governed  by  the  wisdom  of  their  teachers,  while  others 
are  skeptical  and  must  serve  an  apprenticeship  in  imitation. 
Still  others  are  perverse  and  must  be  coerced.  It  is  the  pa- 
tient and  long-suffering  teacher  whose  highest  hopes  will  be 
realized. 

What  Is  Expression? 

What  is  expression?  We  are  told  that  all  life  is  expression : 
The  sudden  summer  shower,  the  leap  of  the  wild  cataract,  the 
springing  forth  of  early  flowers,  and  the  slow  motion  of  the 
glacier  all  represent  Nature  expressing  herself.  The  musi- 
cian over  the  keyboard,  the  painter  at  his  easel,  the  writer  at 
his  desk,  represent  art  expressing  herself.  This  is  all  true. 
But  what  about  mankind  as  a  whole,  what  about  the  vast 

13 


14  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

majority  of  people  who  are  not  endowed  with  genius?    Have 
they  no  universal  and  common  mode  of  expression? 

Greatest  Educational  Value 

Here  lies  the  great  educational  value  of  oral  reading,  of 
expressive  speech.  Their  appeal  should  be  universal  and  not 
confined  to  a  talented  few.  It  were  better  that  those  who 
have  native  ability  were  wholly  neglected  and  allowed  to  ex- 
press themselves  in  their  own  way,  than  that  the  vast  majority 
have  no  training  at  all.  It  is  the  ungifted  who  should  be  aided 
rather  than  those  who  have  been  especially  endowed  by 
Nature. 

The  Desire  to  Express 

The  desire  to  express  is  common  to  all  humanity  from  in- 
fancy to  old  age.  The  true  aim  of  education  should  be  to 
"draw  out"  that  which  is  within  us ;  in  other  words,  to  express 
ourselves — physically,  mentally  and  spiritually.  The  world's 
great  personalities  are  those  who  have  the  greatest  freedom  of 
expression.  They  have  mastered  the  power  to  reveal  their 
inmost  selves.  They  have  profited  by  the  truth  that  through 
exercise  we  grow.  So  we  should  continually  aim  to  free  those 
channels  through  which  we  communicate  ourselves  to  the  out- 
side world,  in  order  that  our  highest  faculties  be  unshackled 
and  be  given  perfect  freedom. 

The  Channels  of  Expression 

Let  us  consider  briefly  what  are  the  chief  avenues  or  chan- 
nels of  revealing  what  we  are  to  others.  Our  first  means  is 
by  movements  of  a  part  or  all  of  the  body.  This  we  call  the 
Physical  Channel.  Later  in  the  development  of  man  the  loca- 
tion of  sound  in  the  throat  was  made.  Man  noted  that  when 
he  experienced  a  certain  mood,  unconsciously  he  gave  vent  to 


ORAL  READING  15 

a  corresponding  guttural  noise  or  sound.  This  is  called  the 
Sound  or  Tone  Channel.  Lastly,  man  invented  sound  sym- 
bols— words.  That  is;  certain  vocal  sounds  represented  cer- 
tain objects  and  ideas.     This  we  call  the  Word  Channel. 

Merging  of  the  Channels 

To  sum  up,  we  have  three  separate  ways  by  which  we  can 
express  what  we  think  and  feel.  It  is  very  important  that  the 
pupil,  as  well  as  the  teacher,  keep  this  fact  in  mind.  If  we 
are  to  be  natural  and  successful  in  giving  out  what  we  really 
are,  these  three  means  must  coordinate,  must  act  harmoniously. 
That  is,  the  body,  or  Physical  Channel,  must  parallel  the  Word 
Channel,  and  the  Tone  Channel  must  parallel  the  Physical  and 
Word  Channel.  Each  must  bear  witness  to  the  truth  uttered 
by  the  other.  When  the  fullness  of  each,  freighted  with  hu- 
man meaning,  overflows,  there  is  a  merging  of  all  three.  The 
result  is  natural  and  intense  expression.  Our  supreme  pur- 
pose is  to  realize  this  triune  of  man's  expressive  powers. 


CHAPTER  V 

SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE 

The  preceding  discussions  should  be  kept  in  mind  while 
studying  the  following  selections.  The  primary  purpose  is  to 
seek  after  the  author's  thought.  If  we  are  able  to  relate 
clearly  and  fluently  in  our  own  words  the  content  of  what  we 
have  read,  then  we  can  feel  assured  that  we  have  found  out 
the  meaning  of  the  author. 

First:  Read  the  selection  paragraph  by  paragraph.  Then 
arrange  in  your  mind  the  several  points  in  their  respective 
order.  Now  give  them  orally  as  simply  and  progressively  as 
possible. 

Second:  Read  the  selection  again  by  paragraphs  and  this 
time  determine  what  are  the  important  and  unimportant  words. 
Then  give  these  important  words  a  greater  force  of  utterance. 

Third :  Do  not  fear  to  make  many  groups.  We  must  first 
see  the  author's  ideas  and  pictures  in  broken  bits.  When  we 
have  thought  clearly  on  each  part  of  the  whole,  and  have  each 
part  securely  in  mind,  we  can  then  surely  and  effectively  put 
these  separate  parts  into  one  complete  picture, 

THE  DOUGLAS  SQUIRREL 

By  John  Muir 

Go  where  you  will  throughout  the  noble  woods  of  the  Sierra  Nevada, 
among  the  giant  pines  and  spruces  of  the  lower  zones,  up  through  the 
towering  Silver  Firs  to  the  storm-bent  thickets  of  the  summit  peaks, 

16 


SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE  17 

you  everywhere  find  this  little  squirrel  the  master-existence.  Though 
only  a  few  inches  long,  so  intense  is  his  fiery  vigor  and  restlessness, 
he  stirs  every  grove  with  wild  life,  and  makes  himself  more  important 
than  even  the  huge  bears  that  shuffle  through  the  tangled  underbrush 
beneath  him.  Every  wind  is  fretted  by  his  voice,  almost  every  'bole 
and  branch  feel  the  sting  of  his  sharp  feet.  How  much  the  growth 
of  the  trees  is  stimulated  by  his  means  it  is  not  easy  to  learn,  but  his 
action  in  manipulating  their  seeds  is  more  appreciable.  Nature  has 
made  him  master  forester  and  committed  most  of  her  coniferous  crops 
to  his  paws.  Probably  over  fifty  per  cent  of  all  the  cones  ripened  on 
the  Sierra  are  cut  off  and  handled  by  the  Douglas  alone,  and  of  those 
of  the  Big  Trees  perhaps  ninety  per  cent  pass  through  his  hands:  the 
greater  portion  is  of  course  stored  away  for  food  to  last  during  the 
winter  and  spring,  but  some  of  them  are  tucked  separately  into  loosely 
covered  holes,  where  some  of  the  seeds  germinate  and  become  trees.  ,  .  . 
One  never  tires  of  this  bright  chip  of  nature, — this  brave  little  voice 
crying  in  the  wilderness, — of  observing  his  many  works  and  ways,  and 
listening  to  his  curious  language.  His  musical,  piny  gossip  is  as  savory 
to  the  ear  as  balsam  to  the  palate;  and,  though  he  has  not  exactly 
the  gift  of  song,  some  of  his  notes  are  as  sweet  as  those  of  a  linnet — 
almost  flute-like  in  softness,  while  others  prick  and  tingle  like  thistles. 
He  is  the  mocking-bird  of  squirrels,  pouring  forth  mixed  chatter  and 
song  like  a  perennial  fountain;  barking  like  a  dog,  screaming  like  a 
hawk,  chirping  like  a  blackbird  or  a  sparrow ;  while  in  bluff,  audacious 
noisiness  he  is  a  very  jay. 

In  descending  the  trunk  of  a  tree  with  the  intention  of  alighting  on 
the  ground,  he  preserves  a  cautious  silence,  mindful,  perhaps,  of  foxes 
and  wildcats;  but  while  rocking  safely  at  home  in  the  pine-tops  there 
is  no  end  to  his  capers  and  noise;  and  woe  to  the  gray  squirrel  or 
chipmunk  that  ventures  to  set  foot  on  his  favorite  treel  No  matter 
how  slyly  they  trace  the  furrows  of  the  fcark,  they  are  speedily  discov- 
ered, and  kicked  downstairs  with  comic  vehemence,  while  a  torrent 
of  angry  notes  comes  rushing  from  his  whiskered  lips  that  sounds 
remarkably  like  swearing.  He  will  even  attempt  at  times  to  drive 
away  dogs  and  men,  especially  if  he  has  had  no  previous  knowledge 
of  them.  Seeing  a  man  for  the  first  time,  he  approaches  nearer  and 
nearer,  until  within  a  few  feet;  then,  with  angry  outburst,  he  makes  a 
sudden  rush,  all  teeth  and  eyes,  as  if  about  to  eat  you  up.  But,  finding 
that  the  big  forked  animal  doesn't  scare,  he  prudently  beats  a  retreat, 
and  sets  himself  up  to  reconnoiter  on  some  overhanging  branch,  scru- 
tinizing every  movement  you  make  with  ludicrous  solemnity. 


18  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Mr.  Muir  thus  tells  of  an  amusing  experience  he  had  with 
a  Douglas  squirrel  that  he  found  at  his  breakfast : 

Breakfast  done,  I  whistled  a  tune  for  him  before  he  went  to  work, 
curious  to  see  how  he  would  be  affected  by  it.  He  had  not  seen  me  all 
this  while;  but  the  instant  I  began  to  whistle  he  darted  up  the  tree 
nearest  to  him,  and  came  out  on  a  small  dead  limb  opposite  me,  and 
composed  himself  to  listen.  I  sang  and  whistled  more  than  a  dozen 
airs,  and  as  the  music  changed  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  turned  his 
head  quickly  from  side  to  side,  but  made  no  other  response.  Other 
squirrels,  hearing  the  strange  sounds,  came  around  on  all  sides,  also 
chipmunks  and  birds.  One  of  the  birds,  a  handsome,  speckle-breasted 
thrush,  seemed  even  more  interested  than  the  squirrels.  After  listen- 
ing for  awhile  on  one  of  the  lower  dead  sprays  of  a  pine,  he  came 
swooping  forward  within  a  few  feet  of  my  face,  and  remained  flut- 
tering in  the  air  for  half  a  minute  or  so,  sustaining  himself  with 
whirring  wing-beats,  like  a  humming-bird  in  front  of  a  flower,  while 
I  could  look  into  his  eyes  and  see  his  innocent  wonder. 

By  this  time  my  performance  must  have  lasted  nearly  half  an  hour. 
I  sang  or  whistled  "Bonnie  Doon,"  "Lass  o'  Gowrie,"  "O'er  the  Water 
to  Charlie,"  "Bonnie  Woods  o'  Cragie  Lee,"  etc.,  all  of  which  seemed 
to  be  listened  to  with  bright  interest,  my  first  Douglas  sitting  patiently 
through  it  all,  with  his  telling  eyes  fixed  upon  me  until  I  ventured  to 
give  the  "Old  Hundredth,"  when  he  screamed  his  Indian  name, 
Pillillooeet,  turned  tail,  and  darted  with  ludicrous  haste  up  the  tree  out 
of  sight,  his  voice  and  actions  in  the  case  leaving  a  somewhat  profane 
impression,  as  if  he  had  said,  "I'll  ibe  hanged  if  you  get  me  to  hear  any- 
thing so  solemn  and  unpiney."  This  acted  as  a  signal  for  the  general 
dispersal  of  the  whole  hairy  tribe,  though  the  birds  seemed  willing  to 
wait  further  developments,  music  being  naturally  more  in  their  line. 

What  there  can  be  in  that  grand  old  church  tune  that  is  so  offensive 
to  birds  and  squirrels  I  can't  imagine.  A  year  or  two  after  this  High 
Sierra  concert,  I  was  sitting  one  fine  day  on  a  hill  in  the  Coast  Range, 
where  the  common  Ground  Squirrels  were  abundant.  They  were  very 
shy  on  account  of  being  hunted  so  much;  but  after  I  had  been  silent 
and  motionless  for  half  an  hour  or  so  they  began  to  venture  out  of 
their  holes  and  to  feed  on  the  seeds  of  the  grasses  and  thistles  around 
me  as  if  I  were  no  more  to  be  feared  than  a  tree-stump.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  this  was  a  good  opportunity  to  find  out  whether 
they  also  disliked  "Old  Hundredth."  Therefore  I  began  to  whistle  as 
nearly  as  I  could  remember  the  same  familiar  airs  that  had  pleased  the 


SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE  19 

mountaineers  of  the  Sierra.  They  at  once  stopped  eating,  stood  erect 
and  listened  patiently  until  I  came  to  "Old  Hundredth,"  when  with 
ludicrous  haste  every  one  of  them  rushed  in  their  holes  and  bolted 
in,  their  feet  twinkling  in  the  air  for  a  moment  as  they  vanished. — From 
"The  Mountains  of  California,"  copyrighted  by  The  Century  Company, 
New  York,  and  used  by  their  kind  permission. 


Nothing  small!  no  lily-muffled  hum  of  a  summer-bee,  but  finds  some 
coupling  with  the  shining  stars ;  no  pebble  at  your  feet  but  proves  a 
sphere;  no  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cherubim.  Earth's  crammed  with 
heaven,  and  every  common  bush  afire  with  God. — Mrs.  Browning. 


Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers. 

— Lowell. 


Once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime  we  are  permitted  to  enjoy  the  charm  of 
noble  manners,  in  the  presence  of  a  man  or  woman  who  have  no  bar 
in  their  nature,  but  whose  character  emanates  freely  in  their  word 
and  gesture.  A  beautiful  form  is  better  than  a  beautiful  face ;  a  beau- 
tiful behavior  is  better  than  a  beautiful  form :  it  gives  a  higher  pleas- 
ure than  statues  or  pictures, — it  is  the  finest  of  the  fine  arts.  A  man 
is  but  a  little  thing  in  the  midst  of  the  objects  of  nature,  yet,  by  the 
moral  quality  radiating  from  his  countenance,  he  may  abolish  all  con- 
siderations of  magnitude,  and  in  his  manners  equal  the  majesty  of  the 
world.  I  have  seen  an  individual,  whose  manners,  though  wholly 
within  the  conventions  of  elegant  society,  were  never  learned  there, 
but  were  original  and  commanding,  and  held  out  protection  and  pros- 
perity; one  who  did  not  need  the  aid  of  a  court-suit,  but  carried  the 
holiday  in  his  eye;  who  exhilarated  the  fancy  by  flinging  wide  the 
doors  of  new  modes  of  existence ;  who  shook  off  the  captivity  of  eti- 
quette, with  happy  spirited  bearing,  good-natured  and  free  as  Robin 
Hood;  yet  with  the  port  of  an  emperor,  if  need  be,  calm,  serious,  and 
fit  to  stand  the  gaze  of  millions. — Emerson. 


Look  at  ourselves.  Look  at  man ;  his  reason,  intelligence,  and  dis- 
coveries. Look  at  him  diving  into  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  calculating 
the  eclipses  of  the  sun  and  moon,  and  making  the  elements  subservient 
to  his  interest  and  his  wants.     Look  at  his  capacities ;  review  the  ten 


20  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

thousand  arguments  that  daily,  nay,  hourly,  arise,  and  then  tell  me  if 
there  is  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  a  God,  a  retributive  God,  does  rule 
the  whirlwind  and  direct  the  storm. — R.  Ricker. 


Education  is  a  companion  which  no  misfortune  can  depress — no 
crime  can  destroy — no  enemy  can  alienate — no  despotism  enslave.  At 
home,  a  friend — abroad,  an  introduction — in  solitude,  a  solace — and  in 
society,  an  ornament.  It  chastens  vice — it  guides  -virtue — it  gives  at 
once  grace  and  government  to  genius — without  it,  what  is  Man?  A 
splendid  slave — a  reasoning  savage! 


Just  before  Napoleon  set  out  for  the  court  of  Belgium,  he  sent  to 
the  cleverest  artisan  of  his  class  in  Paris,  and  demanded  of  him 
whether  he  would  engage  to  make  a  coat  of  mail,  to  be  worn  under 
the  ordinary  dress,  which  should  be  absolutely  bullet-proof;  and  that 
if  so1  he  might  name  his  own  price  for  such  a  work.  The  man  en- 
gaged to  make  the  desired  object,  if  allowed  proper  time,  and  he  named 
eighteen  thousand  francs  as  the  price  of  it.  The  bargain  was  con- 
cluded, and  in  due  time  the  work  was  produced,  and  its  maker  honored 
with  a  second  audience  of  the  emperor.  "Now,"  said  his  imperial 
majesty,  "put  it  on."  The  man  did  so.  "As  I  am  to  stake  my  life  on 
its  efficacy,  you  will,  I  suppose,  have  no  objections  to  do  the  same." 
And  he  took  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  prepared  to  discharge  one  of 
them  at  the  breast  of  the  astonished  artisan.  There  was  no  retreating, 
however,  and  half-dead  with  fear,  he  stood  the  fire,  and,  to  the  infinite 
credit  of  his  work,  with  perfect  impunity.  But  the  emperor  was  not 
content  with  one  trial;  he  fired  the  second  pistol  at  the  back  of  the 
trembling  artisan,  and  afterwards  discharged  a  fowling-piece  at  an- 
other part  of  him,  with  similar  effect.  "Well,"  said  the  emperor,  "you 
have  produced  a  capital  work,  undoubtedly — what  is  the  price  of  it?" 
"Eighteen  thousand  francs  were  named  as  the  agreed  sum."  "There  is 
an  order  for  them,"  said  the  emperor,  "and  here  is  another,  for  an 
equal  sum,  for  the  fright  that  I  gave  you." 

WORK  AND  THE  WORKER 

By  Theodore  Roosevelt 

There  are  any  number  of  different  kinds  of  work  we  have  to  do,  all 
of  which  have  to  be  done.  There  is  the  work  of  the  farmer,  the  work 
of  the  business  man,  the  work  of  the  skilled  mechanic,  the  work  of  the 
men  to  whom  I  owe  my  safety  every  day  and  every  night — the  work  of 


SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE  21 

the  railroad  men;  the  work  of  the  lawyer,  the  work  of  the  sailor,  the 
work  of  the  soldier,  the  work  in  ten  thousand  ways;  it  is  all  good 
work;  it  does  not  make  any  difference  what  work  the  man  is  doing  if 
he  does  it  well.  If  the  man  is  a  slacker,  a  shiftless  creature,  I  wish 
we  could  get  rid  of  him.  He  is  of  no  use.  In  every  occupation  you 
will  find  some  men  whom  you  will  have  to  carry.  You  cannot  do 
much  with  them.  Every  one  of  us  will  stumble  at  times,  and  shame 
to  the  man  who  does  not  at  such  times  stretch  out  a  helping  hand,  but 
if  the  man  lies  down  you  cannot  carry  him  to  any  permanent  use. 
What  I  would  plead  for  is  that  we  recognize  the  fact  that  all  must 
work,  that  we  bring  up  our  children  to  work,  so  that  each  respects 
the  other.  I  do  not  care  whether  a  man  is  a  banker  or  a  bricklayer; 
if  he  is  a  good  banker  or  a  good  bricklayer  he  is  a  good  citizen ;  if  he 
is  dishonest,  if  he  is  tricky,  if  he  shirks  his  job  or  tries  to  cheat  his 
neighbor,  be  he  great  or  small,  be  he  the  poor  man  cheating  the  rich 
man,  or  the  rich  man  oppressing  the  poor  man,  in  either  case  he  is  a 
bad  citizen.— Remarks  at  Berenda,  California,  May  18,  1903. 

THE  MUSIC  OF  AMERICA 
By  Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott 

This  is  the  Music  of  America : 

Above  the  fret  of  a  hundred  routine  duties  and  a  thousand  cares 
rises  the  clarion  Soprano.  It  comes  from  the  joyful  throats  of  mil- 
lions of  women,  blest  beyond  their  sorrowing  sisters  who  dwell  on 
foreign  shores.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  clear-eyed  schoolgirl,  romping 
her  happy  way  from  a  world  of  books  into  a  gentler  world  of  love; 
of  the  self-reliant  sister  who  is  facing  the  forces  of  business  with 
spirit  courageous  and  step  that  has  never  learned  to  falter;  of  the 
mother  of  a  tender  brood  and,  blended  into  the  melody  her  own  heart 
makes,  the  sweet,  lisped  crooning  from  the  child  at  her  bosom. 

The  Tenor  notes  are  strong  and  full  of  golden  promises.  They 
come  from  souls  that  have  climbed  above  the  city's  boldest  heights. 
They  come  from  the  souls  of  self-forgetful  men — a  proud  nation's 
watchers  upon  her  towers  whose  eager  eyes  scan  the  far  stretches  that 
they  may  guard  with  loyalty  against  the  perfidy  of  home  or  foreign 
foes.  The  Tenor  is  the  united  voices  of  the  poets  and  philosophers,  of 
the  reformers  and  statesmen — yes,  and  of  all  that  growing  host  who 
have  scaled  to  the  peak  of  some  new  Sinai,  that  the  people  may  not 
forget  the  Almighty's  will  concerning  them. 


22  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Listen,  and  you  will  mark  the  rich,  rounded  tones  of  the  Contralto — 
from  the  great-hearted  organizations  of  Charity.  Mingled  into  one 
vast,  sweeping  tone — quivering  with  sympathy,  vibrant  with  a  heart's 
best  faith — is  the  voice  of  the  nurse,  bending  above  some  frail  or 
stricken  sufferer;  the  voice  of  the  matron  at  the  threshold  of  some 
gracious  Door  of  Hope;  the  voice  of  the  orphanage,  the  voice  of  the 
infirmary,  the  voice  of  the  rescue  mission,  the  voice  of  the  Salvation 
Army,  the  voice  of  the  Red  Cross,  the  voice  of  the  Christian  Associa- 
tion, the  voice  of  the  Church. 

And  underneath  the  united  harmony  of  Soprano  and  Contralto,  un- 
der the  inspiring  silver  thread  of  Tenor,  there  comes  the  wonderful 
support  of  all,  the  basis  of  a  nation's  Song  of  Hope — the  splendid  and 
terrible  contribution  of  strong-armed,  mighty-limbed  Labor — the  Bass. 
In  the  low,  deep  resonance  of  the  singer's  rare  volume  one  may  catch 
a  vision  of  men,  stern  of  visage  and  powerful  in  action,  dominated  by 
the  happy  unity  of  Will  and  Service,  pouring  down  into  depths  of 
Mother  Earth,  that  other  men  may  have  homes  that  radiate  a  social 
warmth;  a  vision  of  men  at  forge  and  flame,  at  plow  and  pruning- 
hook,  at  threshing-machine  and  throttle.  The  mighty  voice  thrills  with 
the  shriek  of  a  million  factory  whistles,  of  sea  and  river  craft,  of  rush- 
ing locomotives  competing  against  Time  and  Space.  .  .  .  Underneath 
all,  the  splendid  and  terrible  tones  of  a  giant  singer. 

So,  let  us  be  glad  and  rejoice!  The  All-King,  as  He  sits  on  the 
White  Throne,  marshaling  His  worlds,  pauses.  He  bends  a  listening 
ear,  and  surely  His  heart  is  made  glad  with  an  overpowering  happiness 
as  His  ears  catch  the  strains  of  a  grateful  people's  reverence — as  He 
listens  to  the  Music  of  America! — From  The  Ladies  Home  Journal. 

THE  VIRTUES  OF  LOVE 
By  Saint  Paul  the  Apostle 

Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and  have 
not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or  a  tinkling  cymbal. 

And  though  I  have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  understand  all  mys- 
teries, and  all  knowledge;  and  though  I  have  all  faith,  so  that  I  could 
remove  mountains,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  nothing. 

And  though  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I 
give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth  me 
nothing. 

Charity   suffereth   long  and   is  kind;   charity  envieth   not;   charity 


SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE  23 

vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly, 
seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil;  rejoiceth 
not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the  truth;  beareth  all  things,  believeth 
all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things. 

Charity  never  f aileth :  but  whether  there  be  prophecies,  they  shall 
fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease ;  whether  there  be 
knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away. 

For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part.  But  when  that 
which  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away. 

When  I  was  a  child,  I  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood  as  a  child,  I 
thought  as  a  child;  but  when  T  became  a  man,  I  put  away  childish 
things. 

For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly;  but  then  face  to  face:  now 
I  know  in  part ;  but  then  shall  I  know  even  as  also  I  am  known. 

And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three;  but  the  greatest 
of  these  is  charity. — I  Corinthians,  XIII. 

THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  OCEAN 

By  "Proteus" 

My  first  view  of  it  was  on  a  clear,  but  gusty  afternoon  of  autumn. 
The  winds  had  been  abroad  for  many  hours ;  and  as  I  looked  seaward 
from  the  high  promontory,  and  beheld  the  long,  rough  surges  rushing 
towards  me,  and  listened  to  their  wild  roar  as  they  were  flung  back 
from  the  caverned  battlements  at  my  feet,  I  felt  as  if  the  pillars  of  the 
universe  were  shaken  around  me,  and  stood  awed  and  abashed  before 
the  majesty  of  excited  nature.  Since  then,  I  have  been  on  lofty  preci- 
pices while  the  thunder-cloud  was  bursting  below  me — have  leaned 
over  the  trembling  brink  of  Niagara,  and  walked  within  its  awful 
chambers,  but  the  thrill  of  that  moment  has  never  returned.  The  feel- 
ing of  awe,  however,  gradually  gave  place  to  an  intense  but  pleasing 
emotion,  and  I  longed  to  spring  away  from  the  tame  and  trodden 
earth,  to  that  wild,  mysterious  world,  whose  strange  scenes  broke  so 
magnificently  upon  my  vision.  No  wonder  that  our  first  roving  im- 
pulses are  towards  the  ocean.  No  wonder  that  the  romance  and  ad- 
venturous spirit  of  youth  deems  lightly  of  hardship  and  peril,  when 
aroused  by  its  stirring  presentations.  There  is  something  so  winning 
in  the  multiplied  superstitions  of  its  hardy  wanderers — something  so 
fascinating  in  its  calm  beauty,  and  so  animating  in  its  stormy  reck- 
lessness, that  the  ties  of  country  and  kindred  sit  looser  at  our  hearts, 


24  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

as  curiosity  whispers  of  its  unseen  wonders.  In  after  years,  when  the 
bloom  of  existence  has  lost  much  of  its  brightness,  when  curiosity  has 
become  enervated,  and  the  powers  of  the  imagination  palsied,  where 
do  we  sooner  return  to  renew  their  former  pleasing  excitement,  than 
to  our  remembered  haunts  by  the  ocean?  We  leave  behind  us  all  the 
splendor  and  magnificence  of  art,  all  the  voluptuous  gratifications  of 
society — we  break  from  the  banquet  and  the  dance,  and  fly  away  to  the 
solitary  cliffs,  where  the  sea-bird  hides  her  nest.  There  the  cares, 
perplexities,  and  rude  jostlings  of  opposing  interests  are  for  a  while 
forgotten.  There  the  turmoil  of  human  intercourse  disquiets  no  longer. 
There  the  sweat  and  dust  of  the  crowded  city  are  dispelled  as  the  cool 
sea-breeze  comes  gently  athwart  our  feverish  brow.  In  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  scene,  the  blood  gathers  purer  at  the  heart — its  pulse^beat 
is  softer,  and  we  feel  once  more  a  newness  of  life,  amounting  almost 
to  a  transport.  Delightful  remembrances,  that  lie  buried  up  under  the 
dross  of  the  past,  are  reanimated,  and  the  charm,  the  peace,  and  the 
freshness  of  life's  morning  innocence  again  finds  in  our  bosom  a  wel- 
come and  a  home.  The  elastic  spring  of  boyhood  is  in  our  step  as 
we  chase  the  receding  wave  along  the  white  beach,  or  leap  wildly  into 
its  glassy  depths.  In  the  low,  billowy  murmur  that  steals  out  upon 
the  air,  our  ear  catches  the  pleasant,  but  long  unheard  music  of  other 
years,  like  the  remembered  voice  of  a  departed  companion ;  and  while 
leaning  over  some  beetling  crag,  glorious  visions  pass,  thronging  before 
our  eyes,  as,  in  fancy,  we  rove  through  the  coral  groves,  where  the 
mermaids  have  their  emerald  bower,  or  gaze  at  the  hidden  beauties, 
the  uncoveted  gems,  and  the  glittering  argosies  that  repose  amid  the 
stilly  waters.  The  soul  goes  forth,  as  it  were,  to  the  hallowed  and 
undefiled  temples  of  nature,  to  be  purified  of  its  earthly  contamination. 
She  takes  to  herself  wings,  and  flies  away  to  the  "uttermost  parts  of 
the  sea,"  and  even  there  she  hears  the  voice  of  the  Divine,  witnesses 
the  manifestations  of  His  power,  experiences  the  kind  guardianship  of 
His  presence,  and  returns  cheered  and  invigorated  to  renew  her  weary 
pilgrimage. 

THE  GRAY  DAYS 

By  Robert  J.  Burdette 

You  don't  love  the  gray  days  now.  You  want  the  sunshiny  days, 
the  roses  and  the  carnations.  Let  me  tell  you,  children,  you  will  love 
the  gray   days  just  as   well   when  they  come.     Some   day,  when  the 


SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  ONE  25 

heart  is  wearied,  when  the  eyes  are  hot  and  tired  and  dry  with  weep- 
ing, when  the  face  is  burned  by  the  noonday  sun,  you  will  know  how 
like  a  kiss  of  blessedness  from  heaven  comes  the  soft,  cool  touch  of 
the  mist,  creeping  up  out  of  the  sea  or  coming  down  over  the  moun- 
tain, until  it  folds  you  a"S  the  wings  of  a  dove,  and  shuts  you  in  with 
peace  and  rest  and  hope,  and  the  tenderness  of  God.  Oh,  you  will 
thank  God  again  and  again  for  the  gray  days. 

THE  PRESENT  CRISIS 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's  aching 

breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within  him  climb 
To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instantaneous  throe, 
When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to  and  fro ; 
At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start, 
Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips  apart, 
And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath  the  Future's 
heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror  and  a  chill, 

Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming  ill, 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  his  sympathies  with  God 

In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by  the  sod, 

Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the  nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears  along 
Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right  or  wrong 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's  vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibers  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or  shame: — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side; 


26  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah  offering  each  the  bloom  or  blight 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  in  whose  party  thou  shalt  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes  the  dust  against  our  land? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  'tis  Truth  alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around  her  throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon-moments  see, 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut  through  Oblivion's  sea; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  foreboding  cry 

Of  those  crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose  feet  earth's  chaff 

must  fly, 
Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment  hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word ; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne, — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim  unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  His  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is  great, 
Slow  of  faith,  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm  of  fate, 
But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the  market's  din, 
List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave  within, — 
"They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  compromise  with  sin." 


CHAPTER  VI 

ARTICULATION  EXERCISES 

The  pronunciations  and  definitions  throughout  these  pages 
are  those  given  in  "Webster's  New  International  Dictionary/' 
published  by  G.  &  C.  Merriam  Co.,  Springfield,  Mass.,  1918 
Edition. 

Without  a  graceful  and  pleasing  enunciation,  all  your  elegancy  of 
style  in  speaking  is  not  worth  a  farthing. — Chesterfield. 

In  the  utterance  of  words  we  are  concerned  with  the  follow- 
ing terms :  Pronunciation,  Enunciation  and  Articulation.  In 
a  general  way  their  meanings  are  identical,  but  yet  there  is  a 
mark  of  difference  characterizing  each. 

Pronunciation  has  to  do  with  the  act  01  uttering  a  single 
letter,  syllable,  word,  sentence,  or  whole  address.  This  con- 
cerns correctness. 

Enunciation  has  to  do  with  careful,  distinct  utterance  so 
that  any  word  or  any  part  of  a  word  is  completely  audible. 
This  concerns  distinctness. 

Articulation  has  to  do  with  the  act  of  gracefully  and  skill- 
fully manipulating  those  organs  of  speech  necessary  for  the 
correct  pronunciation  and  distinct  enunciation  of  words.  This 
concerns  skillfulness. 

At  least  a  part  of  the  following  exercises  should  be  prac- 
ticed daily,  preferably  in  the  morning.  A  few  minutes'  prac- 
tice is  a  splendid  tonic  for  the  tasks  of  the  day. 

27 


28  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I.     For  the  Lips  and  Jaw 

1.  Repeat  e  a  aw  ah  o  oo.  In  doing  this  extend 
the  lips  and  use  a  relaxed  jaw. 

2.  Repeat  again,  giving  a  rising  inflection  to  each.  Then 
give  each  sound  the  falling  inflection,  and  then  the  cir- 
cumflex inflection. 

3.  Intone  them  on  successive  pitches.  Be  sure  you  have 
pure  vowel  quality. 

4.  Whisper  the  sounds  e  aw  permitting  the  jaw,  in  the 
latter  sound,  to  drop  completely  relaxed  each  time. 

II.  For  Lips,  Tongue  and  Soft  Palate 

1.  Repeat  eb  ab  awb  ahb  ob  oob. 

2.  Repeat  ed  ad  awd  ahd  od  ood. 

3.  Repeat  eg  ag  awg  ahg  og  oog. 

4.  Repeat  ek  ak  awk  ahk  ok  ook. 

III.  The  Aspirates,  or  Breath  Sounds 

1.  Repeat  the  breath  sound  of    p    wh    f    th    s    t    sh    h    k. 

2.  Repeat   wh  (when)    whe  wha   whaw  whah   who   whoo. 

3.  Repeat     fe     fa     faw     fah     fo     foo. 

4.  Repeat    th  (thin)     the    tha    thaw    thah    tho    thoo. 

5.  Repeat     se     sa     saw     sah     so     soo. 

6.  Repeat    te     ta     taw    tah    to    too. 

7.  Repeat     she     sha     shaw     shah     sho     shoo. 

8.  Repeat     he     ha     haw     hah     ho     hoo. 

9.  Repeat     ke    ka     kaw     kah     ko     koo. 
10.  Repeat     pe     pa     paw     pah     po    poo. 

IV.     The  Sub-Vocal  Sounds 

1.  Repeat  the  vocal  sound  ofbwthvzdrzhyg. 

2.  Repeat    be     ba     baw     bah     bo     boo. 

3.  Repeat     w   (wise)  we    wa     waw     wah     wo    woo. 

4.  Repeat     ve    va     vaw    vah     vo     voo. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES 


29 


5.  Repeat  ze     za     zaw     zah     zo     zoo. 

6.  Repeat  de     da     daw     dah     do     doo. 

7.  Repeat  re     ra     raw     rah     ro     roo. 

8.  Repeat  zhe     zha     zhaw     zhah     zho     zhoo. 

9.  Repeat  ye     ya     yaw     yah     yo     yoo. 

10.  Repeat  ge     ga     gaw    gah     go     goo. 

11.  Repeat  th  (thine)     the    tha    thaw    thah    tho    thoo. 

V.  The  Liquid  Sounds 

1.  Repeat  1     m    n. 

2.  Repeat  le     la     law     lah     lo     loo. 

3.  Repeat  '  me     ma    maw     mah     mo     moo. 

4.  Repeat  ne     na     naw     nah     no     noo. 

VI.  The  Nasal  Sounds 

1.  Repeat      m-m-m-e      m-m-m-a      m-m-m-aw      m-m-m-ah 
m-m-m-o     m-m-m-oo. 

2.  Repeat     n-n-n-e     n-n-n-a     n-n-n-aw     n-n-n-ah     n-n-n-o 
n-n-n-oo. 

3.  Repeat  ng-ng-ng-e   ng-ng-ng-a   ng-ng-ng-aw  ng-ng-ng-ah 
ng-ng-ng-o    ng-ng-ng-oo. 


VII. 

Combination  Sounds 

Breath  1. 

Voice 

Breath  2.  Voice 

Breath  3, 

,  Voice 

Breath  4.  Voice 

fe 

ve 

whe 

we 

se 

ze 

she         zhe 

fa 

va 

wha 

wa 

sa 

za 

sha         zha 

faw 

vaw 

whaw 

waw 

saw 

zaw 

shaw      zhaw 

fah 

vah 

whah 

wah 

sah 

zah 

shah      zhah 

fo 

vo 

who 

wo 

so 

zo 

sho         zho 

foo 

voo 

whoo 

woo 

soo 

zoo 

shoo       zhoo 

Here  follow  a  number  of  difficult  combinations  especially 
good  for  the  pupil  who  mumbles  or  is  habitually  careless  and 
indolent.  Their  use  is  effective  in  producing  flexibility  of 
lips,  tongue  and  palate.  It  is  not  advisable  to  spend  too  in- 
tensive or  too  long  practice,  however,  upon  these  so-called 
tongue-twisters    lest    verbal    utterance    becomes    a    laborious, 


30  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

mechanical  process.  But  there  are  some  who  need  just  such 
exercises,  and  those  who  desire  rapid  and  distinct  articulation 
cannot  practice  them  too  much,  provided  their  exercise  is  in- 
teresting or  amusing. 

Betty  Botter  bought  some  butter. 

"But,"  she  said,  "this  butter's  bitter; 

If  I  put  it  in  my  batter, 

It  will  make  my  batter  bitter ; 

But  a  bit  of  better  butter 

Will  but  make  my  batter  better." 

So  she  bought  a  bit  o'  butter 

Better  than  the  bitter  butter, 

And  made  her  bitter  batter  better. 

So  'twas  better  Betty  Botter 

Bought  a  bit  of  better  butter. 

—Sheffield  Telegraph. 


"Thunder,"  thought  Theresa. 
"Thieves !"  throbbed  Theodore. 

Theresa  thumped,  threatened,  thwarted  those  three  thieves,  throwing 
the  thick  thesaurus — that  thrilled  them  1    Theodore  thanked  Theresa. 


I  like  to  write  about  Marie, 
For  glee  and  she  and  be  and  see 
And  we  and  plea  and  free  and  me 
All  go  nicely  with  Marie. 

— Chicago  Herald. 


How  much  wood  would  a  wood  chuck  chuck 
If  a  wood  chuck  could  and  would  chuck  wood? 
He'd  chuck  as  much  wood  as  a  wood  chuck  would 
If  a  wood  chuck  could  and  would  chuck  wood. 


A  thatcher  of  Thatchwood  went  to  Thatchet  a-thatching. 
Five  flippy  Frenchmen  foolishly  fanning  fainting  flies. 
Eight  eager,  earnest,  eccentric  Englishmen  eating  eleven  elusive  eagles. 
High  up  the  hill  he  heaved  a  huge  hoe. 

A  cheap,  changeable,  child-like  chimpanzee  champion  playing  checkers 
with  Charles. 
Black  bugs'  blood.     (Repeat  quickly.) 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  31 

When  a  twiner  a-twisting  will  twist  him  a  twist, 
For  the  twining  his  twist  he  three  twines  doth  entwist. 
But  if  one  of  the  twines  of  the  twist  doth  untwist 
The  twine  that  untwisted,  untwisteth  the  twist. 


As  much  of  the  dew  that  the  dew  drops  drop,  if  dew  drops  do  drop 
dew. 


A  tutor,  who  tooted  a  .flute,  tried  to  tutor  two  tooters  to  toot.  Said 
the  two  to  the  tutor:  "Is  it  harder  to  toot,  or  tutor  two  tooters  to 
toot?" 


A  shy  little  she  said  shoo 

To  a  fly  and  a  flea  in  a  flue. 

Said  the  flea,  "Let  us  fly." 

Said  the  fly,  "Let  us  flee." 

So  they  flew  through  a  flaw  in  the  flue. 


Amidst  the  mists  and  coldest  frosts, 
With  barest  wrists  and  stoutest  boasts, 
He  thrusts  his  fists  against  the  posts, 
And  still  insists  he  sees  the  ghosts. 


Bring  a  bit  of  buttered  bran  bread. 

Lucy  likes  light  literature. 

Around  the  rough  and  rugged  rocks  the  ragged  rascal  ran. 

A  lovely  lily  lying  all  alone  along  the  lane. 

Can  a  stammerer  flatter  a  flatterer? 

The  bald  lawyer  saw  all  in  the  hall. 

Ask  at  last  the  flask  for  the  task. 


To  the  Windmills  said  the  Millwheel : 
"As  the  wind  wills  do  you  still  wheel?" 
"Yes,  we  still  wheel  when  the  wind  wills  1' 
To  the  Millwheel  said  the  Windmills. 


She  stood  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Smith's  fish-sauce  shop  in  the  Strand 
welcoming  him  in. 

Sisyphus  sold  six  pairs  of  shining  steel,  slippery  scissors. 


32  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

What  noise  annoys  a  noisy  oyster  most?     A  noisy  noise  annoys  a 
noisy  oyster  most. 
A  little  leaven  leaveneth  the  whole  lump.     (Not  whole  hump.) 
A  sad  dangler.     (Not  angler.) 
A  languid  dame.     (Not  aim.) 
His  crime  moved  me.     (Not  cry.) 
He  will  prate  to  anybody.     (Not  pray.) 
Chaste  stars.     (Not  tars.) 
Irish  yews.     (Not  shoes.) 

"Give  the  cat  stale  bread  1"    "The  cat's  tail,  mamma?" 
"Silence,  child!" 

Fill  the  sieve  with  thistles,  then  sift  the  thistles  in  the  sieve. 
A  glowing  gleam  glowing  green. 
The  bleak  breeze  blighted  the  bright  broom  blossoms. 
Flesh  of  freshly  dried  flying  fish. 
Six  thick  thistle  sticks. 
Two  toads  tried  to  trot  to  Tedbury. 
Give  Grimes  Jim's  great  gilt  gig  whip. 

Strong  Stephen  Stringer  snared  slickly  six  sickly  silky  snakes. 
Much  water  makes  the  meal-mill  wheel  work  well. 
Eye  her  highness,  how  high  she  holds  her  old  haughty  head. 
The  soup  must  be  heated  before  he  eat  it. 


Hugh  Go  goes  for  the  girls  that  he  sees ; 
Pa  Go  goes  'cause  it  limbers  his  knees; 
Ma  Go  goes  for  the  ease  'neath  the  trees ; 
Nanny  Go  goes  for  the  coasters  that  please : 
Letta  Go  goes  for  Galligher's  squeeze. 
So,  go  where  the  Goes  go. 


Max  with  a  wax  match. 

The  sea  ceaseth — it  sufficeth  sufficiently  that  the  sea  ceaseth. 

Six  slick  slim  slippery  slimy  sleek  slender  sickly  saplings. 


Owen  Moore  went  away 
Owing  more  than  he  could  pay; 
Owen  Moore  came  back  one  day 
Owing  more. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  33 

There  was  a  young  fellow  named  Tait 

Who  dined  with  his  girl  at  8 :08. 

As  Tate  did  not  state, 

I  cannot  relate 

What  Tate  and  his  tete-a-tete  ate  at  8 :08. 


A  farmer  had  a  seeder  for  the  seeding  of  the  seed.  It  was  a  cedar 
seeder,  and  said  he :  "I  never  seed  a  seeder  that  could  exceed  this 
yere  cedar  seeder  for  the  seedin'  of  the  seed." 


SIMON  SHORT'S  SON  SAMUEL 

Shrewd  Simon  Short  sewed  shoes.  Seventeen  summers'  speeding 
storms,  spreading  sunshine,  successively  saw  Simon's  small  shabby 
shop  still  stanch;  saw  Samuel's  self-same  squeaking  sign  still  swing- 
ing, silently  speechifying:  "Simon  Short,  Smithfield's  sole  surviving 
shoemaker,  shoes  sewed,  soled  superfinely." 

Simon's  spry,  sedulous  spouse,  Sally  Short,  sewed  shirts,  stitched 
sheets,  stuffed  sofas.  Simon's  six  stout,  sturdy  sons,  Seth,  Samuel, 
Stephen,  Saul,  Shadrach,  Silas — sold  sundries.  Sober  Seth  sold  sugar, 
starch,  spice;  Simple  Samuel  sold  saddles,  stirrups,  screws;  sagacious 
Stephen  sold  silks,  satins,  shawls ;  skeptical  Saul  sold  silver  salvers ; 
selfish  Shadrach  sold  salves,  shoestrings,  soap,  skates,  saws,  sausages, 
sawdust;  slack  Silas  sold  Sally  Short's  stuffed  sofas. 

Some  seven  summers  since,  Simon's  second  son,  Samuel,  saw  Sophia 
Sophronia  Spriggs,  sweet,  sensible,  smart  Sophronia  Spriggs.  Sam 
showed  strange  symptoms.  Sam  seldom  stayed  storing,  selling  sad- 
dles. Sam  sighed  sorrowfully,  sought  Sophia  Sophronia  Sprigg's  so- 
ciety; sung  several  serenades  slyly.  Simon  stormed,  scolded  severely, 
said  Sam  seemed  so  silly  singing  such  shameful,  senseless  songs. 
"Strange,  Sam  should  slight  such  splendid  summer  sales  1  Strutting 
Spendthrift !  Shatter-brained  simpleton  1" 

"Softly,  softly,  sire!"  said  Sally.  "Sam's  smitten;  Sam's  spied  some 
sweetheart." 

"Sentimental  schoolboy !"  snarled  Simon.  "Smitten  !  stop  such  stuff  I" 
Simon  sent  Sally's  snuffbox  spinning,  seized  Sally's  scissors,  smashed 
Sally's  spectacles,  scattered  several  spools.  "Sneaking  scoundrel ! 
Sam's  shocking  silliness  shall  surcease !"  Scowling  Simon  stopped 
speaking,  starting  swiftly  shopward.  Sally  sighed  sadly.  Summoning 
Sam,  she  spoke  sweet  sympathy. 


34  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Sam,"  said  she,  "Sire  seems  singularly  snappy;  so,  sonny,  stop 
strutting  streets,  stop  smoking  segars,  spending  specie  superfluously, 
stop  sprucing  so,  stop  singing  serenades,  stop  short!  Sell  saddles  sen- 
sibly. See  Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs  soon ;  she's  sprightly ;  she's 
stable.     So,  solicit,  sue,  secure  Sophia  speedily,  Sam." 

"So  soon?     So  soon?"  said  Sam,  standing  stock-still. 

"So  soon,  surely,"  said  Sally,  smiling,  "  'specially  since  Sire  shows 
such  spirits." 

So  Sam,  somewhat  scared,  sauntered  slowly,  shaking  stupendously. 
Sam  soliloquizes :  "Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs  —  Spriggs  —  Samuel 
Short's  spouse — sounds  splendid.  Suppose  she  should  say — shoo?  She 
shan't!     She  shan't!" 

Soon  Sam  spied  Sophia  starching  shirts,  singing  softly.  Seeing  Sam, 
she  stopped  starching,  saluted  Sam  smilingly.  Sam  stammered  shock" 
ingly:     "Spl-spl-splendid  summer  season,  Sophia." 

"Somewhat  sultry,"  suggested  Sophia. 

"Sar-sartin,  Sophia,"  said  Sam!     (Silence  seventeen  seconds.) 

"Selling  saddles,  still,  Sam?" 

"Sartin,"  said  Sam,  starting  suddenly.  "Season's  somewhat  sudo- 
rific," said  Sam,  stealthily  staunching  sweat,  shaking  sensibly. 

"Sartin,"  said  Sophia,  significantly.  "Sip  some  sherbert,  Sam?" 
(Silence  sixty  seconds.) 

"Sire  shot  sixty  sheldrakes,  Saturday,"  said  Sophia. 

"Sixty?  sho!"  said  Sam.     (Silence  seventy  seconds.) 

"See  Sister  Susan's  sunflowers,"  said  Sophia,  sociably  scattering  such 
stiff  silence. 

Sophia's  sprightly  sauciness  stimulated  Sam  strangely;  so  Sam  sud- 
denly spoke  sentimentally,  "Sophia,  Susan's  sunflowers  seem  saying, 
'Samuel  Short,  Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs,  stroll  serenely,  sequestered 
spot,  some  sylvan  shade.  Sparkling  springs  shall  sing  soul-soothing 
strains;  sweet  songsters  shall  silence  secret  sighings;  super-angelic 
sylphs  shall—' " 

Sophia  snickered,  so  Sam  stopped. 

"Sophia,"  said  Sam  solemnly. 

"Sam,"  said  Sophia. 

"Sophia,  stop  smiling.  Sam  Short's  sincere.  Sam's  seeking  some 
spouse,  Sophia!" 

Sophia  stood  silent. 

"Speak!     Sophia,  speak!     Such  suspense  stimulates  sorrow." 

"Seek  Sire,  Sam,  seek  Sire !" 

Sam  sought  Sire  Spriggs.     Sire  Spriggs  said,  "Sartin." 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  35 

So  Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs  serenely  signs  Sam's  screeds  "Sophia 
Sophronia  Spriggs  Short." 


Theophilus  Thistle,  the  successful  thistle  sifter,  in  sifting  a  sieve 
full  of  unsifted  thistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles  through  the 
thick  of  his  thumb.  Now  if  Theophilus  Thistle,  the  successful  thistle 
sifter,  in  sifting  a  sieve  full  of  unsifted  thistles  thrust  three  thousand 
thistles  through  the  thick  of  his  thumb,  see  that  thou,  in  sifting  a  sieve 
full  of  unsifted  thistles,  thrust  not  three  thousand  thistles  through  the 
thick  of  thy  thumb. 


There  was  a  man  named  Bill.  The  said  Bill  owned  a  bill-board  and 
he  also  owed  a  board-bill.  Bill's  board-bill  fell  due,  but  owing  to  the 
fact  that  Bill's  bill-board  held  all  his  money,  the  said  Bill  was  unable 
to  settle  the  board-bill.  Bill's  landlady  was  much  bored  with  Bill,  with 
Bill's  board-bill  and  with  Bill's  bill-board.  Bill  also  became  bored 
with  himself,  bored  with  his  landlady,  bored  with  bis  board-bill,  and 
bored  with  his  bill-board.  So  Bill,  bored  and  bored  and  bored  by  her 
who  was  also  bored  and  bored  and  bored,  sold  his  bill-board  and  paid 
his  board-bill;  and  thus  Bill  who  was  often  bored  and  the  board  that 
was  often  billed  and  the  bill  that  often  bored — Bill,  bill-board  and 
board-bill,  together  with  the  thrice-bored  board-bill  lady  served  to  make 
history,  the  reading  of  which  continues  to  bore  all  owners  of  bill- 
boards and  owners  of  board-bills  to  this  day. 

Though  doubtless  written  with  some  immediate  political 
purpose,  with  which  we  have  no  concern,  the  student  of  a 
perfect  enunciation  will  find  the  following  a  most  helpful 
exercise. 

AINT  IT  THE  TRUTH? 

By  Threl  Fall 

Woodrow  Wilson  works  wonders  while 
Windy  worldlings  weary  welkins  with 
What  were  wdiilom  winful  warcries. 
While  wayward  Washingtonians  without 
Wit  whimper  wearisomely,  while  witless 
Wretches  whine  weasel  words  with  will, 
While  woebegone  weaklings  wobble, 


36  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Waver,  wizen;  while  weasened  warlocks 
Who  want  weapons  wickedly  weave  webs, 
Woodrow  who  would  wither  weltering 
World  war  works  wholesouledly.    Woodrow 
Warps  world-peace  woof  with  western 
Wisdom,  whipsaws  wayfaring  wastrels 
Who  would  wantonly  wreck.    Woodrow 
Whangs  werewolves,  watches  whisperers, 
Whales  welchers.    Woodrow  warily 
Wheedles  world-hardened  wiseacres 
Who  wrangle.    Woodrow  without 
Weakening  whacks  wooden-headed 
Whippersnappers  who  warble.    Woodrow's 
Welcome  World  Weal  wins  war-weary 
Womankind,  wan  widows  whose  warriors 
Were  wasted,  wink  warmly,  winsome 
Wenches  whoop  wildly,  waltzing 
Walkyrie-like,  worthy  wives  warble 
Whimsically.     Woodrow  withal  wakes 
World  wants  which  were  withered. 
Whangdoodles  with  warlike  ways 
Would  well  'ware  Wilson. 

— Los  Angeles  Times,  March  20, 1919. 

THE  FAR-FAMED  FAIRY  TALE  OF  FENELLA1 

(1)  A  Famous  Fish  Factor  Found  himself  Father  of  Five  Fine  Flirt- 
ing Females — Fanny,  Florence,  Fernanda,  Francesca,  and  Fenella.  (2) 
The  First  Four  were  Flat-Featured,  ill-Favored,  Forbidding-Faced, 
Freckled  Frumps;  Fretful,  Flippant,  Foolish,  and  Flaunting.  (3) 
Fenella  was  a  Fine-Featured,  Fresh,  Fleet-Footed  Fairy;  Frank,  Free 
and  Full  of  Fun.  (4)  The  Fisher  Failed  and  was  Forced  by  Fickle 
Fortune  to  Forego  his  Footman,  Forfeit  his  Forefather's  Fine  Fields, 
and  Find  a  Forlorn  Farmhouse  in  a  Forsaken  Forest.  (5)  The  Four 
Fretful  Females,  Fond  of  Figuring  at  Feasts  in  Feathers  and  Fash- 
ionable Finery,  Fumed  at  their  Fugitive  Father.  (6)  Forsaken  by 
Fulsome,  Flattering  Fortune-hunters,  who  Followed  them  when  Fish 
Flourished,  Fenella  Fondled  her  Father,  Flavored  their  Food,  Forgot 
her  Flattering  Followers,  and  Frolicked  in  Frieze  without  Flounces. 

1  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by  George  Wharton 
James,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  37 

(7)  The  Father,  Finding  himself  Forced  to  Forage  in  Foreign  parts 
for  a  Fortune,  Found  he  could  afford  a  Fairing  For  his  Five  Fond- 
lings. (8)  The  First  Four  were  Fain  to  Foster  their  Frivolity  with 
Fine  Frills  and  Fans,  Fit  to  Finish  their  Father's  Finances;  Fenella, 
Fearful  of  Flooring  him,  Formed  a  Fancy  For  a  Full,  Fresh  Flower. 

(9)  Fate  Favored  the  Fish-Factor  For  a  Few  days,  when  he  Fell  in 
with  a  Fog;  his  Faithful  Filly's  Footsteps  Faltered,  and  Food  Failed. 

(10)  He  Found  himself  in  Front  of  a  Fortified  Fortress.  Finding  it 
Forsaken,  and  Feeling  himself  Feeble  and  Forlorn  with  Fasting,  he 
Fed  upon  the  Fish,  Flesh  and  Fowl  he  Found,  Fricasseed  and  Fried ; 
and  when  Full,  Fell  Flat  on  the  Floor.  (11)  Fresh  in  the  Forenoon 
he  Forthwith  Flew  to  the  Fruitful  Fields,  and,  not  Forgetting  Fenella, 
he  Filched  a  Fair  Flower;  when  a  Foul,  Frightful,  Fiendish  Figure 
Flashed  Forth,  "Felonious  Fellow! — Fingering  my  Flower — I'll  Finish 
you!  Go,  say  Farewell  to  your  Fine,  Felicitous  Family,  and  Face  me 
in  a  Fortnight."  (12)  The  Faint-hearted  Fisher  Fumed  and  Faltered, 
and  Fast  was  Far  in  his  Flight.  (13)  His  Five  daughters  Flew  to 
Fall  at  his  Feet,  and  Fervently  Felicitate  him.  (14)  Frantically  and 
Fluently  he  unfolded  his  Fate.  (15)  Fenella,  Forthwith,  Fortified  by 
Filial  Fondness,  Followed  her  Father's  Footsteps,  and  Flung  her 
Faultless  Form  at  the  Foot  of  the  Frightful  Figure,  who  Forgave  the 
Father,  and  Fell  Flat  on  his  Face;  For  he  had  Fervently  Fallen  in  a 
Fiery  Fit  of  love  For  the  Fair  Fenella.  (16)  He  Feasted  and  Fostered 
her,  till,  Fascinated  by  his  Faithfulness,  she  Forgot  the  Ferocity  of  his 
Face,  Form  and  Feature ;  and  Frankly  and  Fondly  Fixed  Friday  Fifth 
of  February,  For  the  affair  to  come  off.  (17)  There  were  present  at 
the  wedding,  Fanny,  Florence,  Fernanda,  Francesca,  and  the  Fisher. 
(18)  There  were  Festivity,  Fragrance,  Finery,  Fireworks,  Fricasseed 
Frogs,  Fritters,  Fish,  Flesh,  Fowl  and  Furmenty;  Frontignac,  Flip, 
and  Fare  Fit  For  the  Fastidious;  Fruit,  Fuss,  Flambeaux,  Four  Fat 
Fiddlers,  and  Fifers;  and  the  Frightful  Form  of  the  Fortunate  and 
Frumpish  Fiend  Fell  From  him,  and  he  Fell  at  Fenella's  Feet,  a  Fair- 
Favored,  Fine,  Frank  Freeman  of  the  Forest!  (19)  Behold  the  Fruits 
of  Filial  affection! — Comic  Times. 

MY  M-MADE  MEMORY  MEDLEY 

MENTIONING  MEMORY'S  MARVELOUS  MANIFESTATIONS  * 
(1)  Memory    Means    Mind — Mind    Means    Memory.     (2)  Memory 

1  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year   1885,  by  George  Wharton 
James,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


38  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Most  Mysteriously  Makes  Mental  Memoranda.  (3)  Matured  Meta- 
physical Meditation  Manifests  Memory  Man's  Mighty  Maker's  Mani- 
foldly Marvelous,  Magnificent  Masterpiece.  (4)  Memory  Makes, 
Molds,  Modifies,  Moves,  Maintains  Mind ;  Memory  Moves  Man's 
Mouth;  Memory  Manages  Man's  Manipulations.  (5)  Multitudinous 
Misfortunes  Mark  Meager  Memory,  Municipal  Mismanagement,  Mari- 
time Mishaps,  Mercantile  Miscalculations.  (6)  Meager  Memory 
Means  Mystification,  Misconception,  Misunderstanding,  Mournful 
Mental  Malady.  (7)  Many  Men  Meditating  Merge  'Mid  Mystifica- 
tion, Mostly  Meaning  Mismanaged  Memory.  (8)  Meager  Memory 
Makes  Many  Men  Mere  Mute  Mummies.  (9)  Mold  Memory,  Man- 
age Memory;  Make  Memory-Meditations  Mind-Making  Material. 
Mere  Mechanical,  Muttering  Memory  Makes  Many  Men  Mere 
Meaning-Minus  Magpies.  (10)  Memory  Managed  Methodically,  Man- 
ifests Marvelous  Might.  (11)  Many  Maddened  Masters  Murmuringly 
Mistrust  Meritedly  Mistrusted  Menials'  Muddly  Memories.  (12) 
Menials'  Message  Mangling  Misconduct,  Magical  Modern  Memory 
Methods  Most  Materially  Mitigate.  (13)  Memory  Methods  Master 
Most  Marvelous  Medleys.  (14)  Miss  Market-Much  Might  Memorize 
Meat,  Mustard,  Mushrooms,  Melons,  Marmalade,  Milk,  Mullets,  Mops, 
Matches,  Medicine,  Myrrh,  Musk,  Muslin,  Music;  Moreover  Many 
Miscellaneous  Momentous  Messages.  (15)  Many  Men  Much  Misun- 
derstand Memory  Methods,  Making  Mental  Mazes  Much  More  Mys- 
terious ;  Making  Mere  Mole-Mounds  Mule  Maddening-Mountains ; 
Making  Minutest  Mites  Mighty  Mammalia.  (16)  Many  Men  Men- 
tally Merely  Move  Mobward,  Mingling  Mimicked,  Meaningless  Mur- 
murings  'Midst  Misty-Minded  Men's  Maniacal  Mutterings,  Menacing 
Memory  Method's  Mutilation.  Mildly,  Manfully,  Mockingly,  Memory 
Men  March,  Maintaining  Majesty.  (17)  Mercenary  Motives,  Mis- 
taken Monetary  Management  May  Make  Many  Meanly  Miss  Mentally 
Masticating  Memory  Methods.  Moral  Men  Manifesting  Manly  Mo- 
tives May  Mention  Memory's  Marvelous  Malleability,  Making  Mem- 
ory's Maximum  Man's  Mental  Meridian!  (18)  Murky-Minded,  Mis- 
anthropic, Monopolizing  Men  May  Malevolently  Mutter  Many  Mis- 
chievous, Malice-Molded  Maledictions,  Mockingly  Mistrusting  Mem- 
ory Methods.  (19)  Memory  Methods  Master  Minutely  Many  Man- 
uals, Mosaic  Maxims,  Mediaeval  Memorables,  Masonic  Mysteries, 
Mechanical  Movements,  Mineral  Mixtures,  Medicinal  Metamorphoses, 
Musical  Measure,  Mathematical  Materials,  Mercantile  Managements, 
Momentary  Mementos.  (20)  Memory  Methods  Might  Make  Mon- 
archs,  Ministers,  Members,  Mayors,  Magistrates,  Mouth  Most  Might- 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  39 

ily,  Minus  Manuscripts.  (21)  Memory  Methodically  Manifested 
Makes  Man  Muscularly,  Mentally,  Morally,  Mercantilely,  Much  More 
Manly.  (22)  Memory  May  Make  Metropolitan  Manufacturers  Manu- 
facture Many  Most  Magnificent  Materials,  Merely  Marking  Mentally 
Modistes'  Modified  Matchless  Models.  (23)  Memory  Makes  Money- 
Moving  Merchants  Mass  Many  More  Money-Mounds.  (24)  Memory 
Makes  Morose  Men  Much  More  Mannerly.  Memory  Makes  Men's 
Motto  "Mutely  Miss  Mischievous  Meddling."  (25)  Memory,  Marking 
Man's  Misguided  Mind,  Makes  Man  Merciful.  Mingled  Mortifica- 
tions, Minus  Merciful  Memory,  Make  Minor  Mistakes  Miscreant 
Misdemeanors.  (26)  Memory,  Methodized,  Makes  More  Magnetic, 
Meltingly  Melodious,  Meekminded,  Modest,  Marriageable  Maidens. 
(27)  Memory  Makes  Mothers  Manage  •  Minutest,  Multitudinously 
Miscellaneous  Matters  Meritoriously  Maternally.  (28)  Memory  Makes 
Model  Men  Matchlessly  Master  Mimicry.  Memory  Makes  Mimics 
Mimic  Minutely.  (29)  Mind  —  Memory!  Mockingly,  Maddeningly, 
Manages,  Masters,  Manacles  Men's  Mere  Muscular  Might.  (30) 
Memory  Molds  Men's  Musings;  Millionaires'  Musings  May  Mark 
Moldering  Marble  Monuments,  Mutely  Mentioning  Magnificent  Munif- 
icences. (31)  Military  Men,  Musing,  May  Mark  Muskets,  Matchless 
Marksmen,  Mortars,  Majors,  Men,  Movements,  Maneuvers.  (32) 
Milkmaid's  Musings  May  Mark  Mist-Moistened  Meadows,  Mirthful 
Milkmen  Merrily  Milking,  Millers,  Mills,  Men  Mowing,  Moving  Mud- 
Mounds,  Minding  Mares,  Managing  Managers,  Malting;  Master's 
Mansion,  Master  Making  Market  Memos. ;  Mistress  Making  Mince- 
meat; Miss  Millie  "Musicking" ;  Master  Mathew  Meeting  Miss  May 
Marry-Me.  (33)  Man's  Misconduct  Makes  Meditation — Memory — 
Mental  Misery.  (34)  Murderers'  Morbid  Minds  Meek  Morpheus 
Molests,  Making  Midnight's  Mysterious  Musings  Merciless  Mental 
Martyrdoms.  (35)  Methodical  Memorizing  Means  Mating  Mentally 
— Mark!  Minister  Manuscript — Manuscript  Mission — Mission  Money 
— Money  Missionary — Missionary  Mohammedan — Mohammedan  Med- 
itate— Meditate  Misconduct — Misconduct  Mediator — Mediator  Mes- 
siah !  Mark,  Moreover,  Memory  Methods  Make  Mixed  Mental 
Masses  Most  Marvelously  Manageable.  Meager  Memory,  Moderate 
Memory,  Mighty  Memory,  Method  May  Magnify  Much.  (36)  Men- 
tioning My  M-Made  Memory  Medley,  May  Make  Many  Melancholy 
Moping  Men  Manifest  Much  Merriment.  (37)  Many  Merely  Mutter- 
ing My  M-Made  Memory  Medley  May  Make  Multitudinous  Mistakes. 
(38)  My  Memory  Men  May  Memorize  My  Matchlessly  Mouth  Mar- 
tyrdomizing  M-Made  Memory  Medley ! ! ! — William  Stokes. 


40  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

If  one  has  a  little  spare  time,  he  can  use  it  to  good  advantage 
in  making  alliterative  exercises  for  himself.  It  will  enlarge 
his  vocabulary,  discipline  him  in  the  use  of  unfamiliar  words, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  afford  him  opportunity  for  linguistic 
practice  for  the  improvement  of  his  pronunciation,  enuncia- 
tion and  articulation.  For  instance,  here  are  a  few  crude  at- 
tempts made  by  one  of  the  authors  when  he  was  lying  on  a 
sick-bed  and  desired  a  change  of  mental  occupation. 

MIGHTY  MAJESTIC  MIND 

Man's  Muscular,  Mental,  Moral  Master 

Mind  magnificently  masters  man.  Mind  majestically  manages  man's 
muscular,  mental,  moral  movements.  Man  moves  materially.  Material 
movements  mean  motions  made  muscularly,  mechanically.  Man's  me- 
chanics move  as  man's  mind  mandates.  Mere  mechanical-man,  mus- 
cular-man, means  microcosmic  majesty,  but  man's  moral  mentality, 
mysteriously  manifests  man's  Mighty  Maker's  magnificent,  matchless 
majesty.  Mind  manifestations  mean  mentation,  mystery,  method,  mu- 
nicipal management,  music,  melody,  multifarious  manufactures,  market 
manipulations,  Marconi  messages,  macadamization,  motor  movements, 
mechanical  mastery,  metallic  mixtures,  muscular  motions  mentally 
mandated,  maritime  maneuvers,  magnetic  mastery.  Men's  mental  mis- 
steps mean  misery,  morbidity,  moroseness,  many  moon's  mournful  med- 
itations. Man's  mind  mismanaged  means  mental  mirages,  miserable 
miserliness,  mearr  marriages.  Many  men  marry  mistakenly,  merely 
marking  mean  mentality,  moral  mismanagement.  Miserable  marriages 
mean  morbid  mouthings,  misleading  marital  mirages,  moral  missteps, 
monotonous  months,  mean  moments,  miserable  meetings.  Mean,  ma- 
licious, morally  morbid,  meddling  marplots  make  many  marriage  mates 
miserable,  mouthing  mendacious  misstatements,  manufacturing  mean 
messages,  making  matrons  mutely  meditate  mauling  mysterious  maid- 
ens who  merrily  manipulate  meager-minded  men.  Methodistical,  Men- 
nonite  maidens,  meditating  many  men's  malodorous  matrimonial  mis- 
haps, mercilessly  meditate  maidenhood,  mocking  marriage  misfits. 
Maidens  morally,  mentally,  muscularly  married,  majestically  move 
matronward,  meeting  motherhood  merrily.  Mighty  Majestic  Mind 
made    Maiden    Mary's    motherhood    mysteriously    materialize.     Moral 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  41 

man's  meditations  magnify  Maiden  Mary's  marvelous  motherhood. 
Mans',  matrons',  maidens'  managed  mentations  mean  mentally-manipu- 
lated meritorious  monogamous  marriages,  making  mates  materially 
merry,  managing  maternity  modernly.  Moreover,  man's  managed 
mentations  mean  mercantile  might,  maritime  majesty,  masterly  me- 
chanics, monkish  manuscripts,  marble  mansions,  moon  maps,  martial 
maneuvers,  military  marchings,  magnificent  masquerades,  mail  move- 
ments, mystic  materializations,  mathematical  mazes,  Maypole  maidens, 
molded  medals,  modern  medicine,  megalithic  monuments,  musical  meg- 
aphones, melodramatic  monologues,  man's  melioration,  mellow  mem- 
ories, Mennonite  missionaries,  merciful  mandatories,  Messianic 
masses,  metaphysical  messages,  mighty  metaphors,  metaphrastic  meta- 
morphoses, metallic  mercuries,  marvelous  metropolises,  Methodistic 
morals,  monks'  meditations,  Mohammedan  mosques,  miniature  min- 
arets, masterful  ministers,  miraculous  mirrors,  martial  mobilizations, 
multiplied  musicians,  marble  mosaics,  meaningful  mottoes.  Mendels- 
sohn made  manifold  music,  monkish  masses,  modulated  madrigals, 
mincing  minuets,  military  marches.  Moor  mountebanks  make  money 
monkey-shining.  Melancthon's  managed  mentality  materialized  moral 
mottoes,  manuscripts,  mandates,  mental  manna  for  mighty  monarchs, 
manifold  multitudes.  Macbeth's  moral  missteps  materialized  mani- 
chean  morbidity,  malignant  moroseness,  murderous  manifestations, 
maniacal  madness.  Merry  Maryland's  melody  moves  men's,  matrons', 
maidens'  muscular  movements  mightily.  More  meditation  might  ma- 
terialize many  more  m-made  mental  meanderings. 

SOUL  SUBLIME 

Spirit  sees  spirit  surely.  Spirit  shuns  sensuous  symbols,  shibboleths, 
signs,  sins.  Spirit  seeks  serenity,  sociability,  salvation,  supreme  spirit- 
ual standards,  splendid  sympathy,  starlike  success.  Sin,  sensuality, 
sear,  singe,  scorch,  send  suffering,  sorrow,  sadness.  Spirit,  soul,  soar- 
ing supremely,  senses  slumber  soundly.  Senses  sleep,  spirit  solves. 
Soul  subjects  senses  securely — sight,  sound,  smell,  space — storing  spirit 
secrets,  sweet  sounds,  soulful  sympathy.  Spirit  sends  soul  starward 
seeking  spirit's  shoreless,  shining  seas  sublimely  serene.  Soul  sur- 
vives sense's  subjugation.  Soul  seeks  successful  solutions  such  stag- 
gerers as  syncopation,  syncretism,  syndicalism,  symbiosis,  symmetri- 
calism,  synesthesia,  synovitis,  syringomyelia,  strumae,  stronglyidae, 
strobilation,  stock  swindling,  solfatara,  solaria,  Sivaism,  Shintoism, 
sisymbriums,    siphonophora,    shunning    shilly-shallying,    sloppy    senti- 


42  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

mentality,    slippery    sneakiness,    sulky    slovenliness,    secret    sinfulness, 
shekel  stealing,  saucy  slandering. 

One  might  write  a  "Wordy  Wabble  on  Women,"  telling 
how  "women  wheedle  wary  woodmen  woefully  in  western, 
wild  Wyoming  and  Washington.  Warring,  waspish  women 
wear  war-paint  wielding  willow  wands  whackingly  when 
weary  Willies  wantonly  waste  wages,"  and  so  on.  Or  he 
could  picture  Dauntless  Daniel  daringly  defying  Desperate 
Desmond.  A  war  correspondent  might  have  gained  fame  a  few- 
years  ago  had  he  headed  his  German  letter:  "Blatant  Billy 
Blusteringly,  Belligerently,  Bellows  Braggingly,"  and  later  he 
might  have  told  how  "British  bulldogs  beat  Billy's  bragging, 
brutal,  bullying  battalions;  .beneficently,  benignly,  beautifully 
backing  beleaguered  Belgium's  bruised,  but  brave  batteries. 
Billy  bemoaned  beaten  battalions,  but  Bulldog  Britain  beamed 
benignly,  bantering  Billy's  Brunswick  backers,  bagging  Billy's 
belongings,  bogging  Billy's  boasted  bootsteps.  Britain's  bull- 
dogs made  bragging,  boasting  Billy  bow  bendingly  before  bully 
belligerents." 

Let  not  the  intellectual  student  deem  this  kind  of  exercise 
too  frivolous.  It  will  be  of  far  greater  benefit  to  him  than 
he  is  aware,  especially  if  he  will  read  and  reread  his  allitera- 
tions, with  clear  understanding,  in  accordance  with  the  prin- 
ciples laid  down  in  the  earlier  part  of  Chapter  I. 

Of  a  different  type,  but  equally  useful  as  exercises  in  com- 
position, and  intelligent  and  carefully  articulated  reading,  are 
such  compositions  as  the  following.  Let  the  student  try  to 
make  up  something  of  the  kind  descriptive  of  a  battle,  a  rain- 
storm, an  earthquake,  etc. 

A  man  whose  vocabulary  seems  to  be  unlimited  when  he 
desires  to  describe  conditions,  and  whose  nights  were  made 
sleepless  by  a  switch  engine,  recently  wrote  as  follows  to  the 
railroad  company: 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  43 

Is  it  absolutely  necessary,  in  discharge  of  his  duty  day  and  night, 
that  the  engineer  of  your  yard  at  the  upper  terminal  bridge  should 
make  his  engine  ding  and  dong  and  fizz  and  spit  and  clang  and  bang 
and  buzz  and  hiss  and  bell  and  wail  and  pant  and  rant  and  yowl  and 
grate  and  grind  and  puff  and  bump  and  click  and  clank  and  chug  and 
moan  and  hoot  and  toot  and  crash  and  grunt  and  gasp  and  groan  and 
whistle  and  wheeze  and  squawk  and  blow  and  jar  and  perk  and  rasp 
and  jingle  and  twang  and  clack  and  rumble  and  jangle  and  ring  and 
clatter  and  yelp  and  croak  and  howl  and  hum  and  snarl  and  puff  and 
growl  and  thump  and  boom  and  clash  and  jolt  and  jostle  and  shake 
and  screech  and  snort  and  snarl  and  slam  and  shake  and  throb  and 
crink  and  quiver  and  rumble  and  roar  and  rattle  and  yell  and  smoke 
and  smell  and  shriek  like  hell? — Labor  Clarion,  1916. 


The  Habit  of  Swallowing  the  "G" 

The  Problem 

It  is  strange  why  so  many  people  fail  to  sound  the  "ing" 
ending  clearly  when  in  reality  to  do  so  requires  less  effort  than 
not  to.  There  is  no  better  way  of  describing  it  than  the  swal- 
lowing of  the  "g." 

Let  us  take  the  word  "running"  and  determine*  the  action  of 
the  tongue  in  the  proper  and  improper  enunciation  of  the  "ing." 

1.  Repeat  it  as  "runnin'  "  and  note  the  position  of  the  tongue 
tip  at  the  end  of  the  word.  You  will  find  it  pressed  against 
the  roof  of  the  mouth  just  back  of  the  upper  front  teeth.  You 
will  also  note  that  the  vowel  sound  "i"  is  changed  to  "u." 

2.  Now  repeat  "running."  You  will  discover  the  mouth  is 
more  open,  and  the  tongue  tip  just  back  of  the  lower  front 
teeth,  and  the  pure  vowel  quality  of  "i"  is  retained. 

Evil  Effects 

There  are  three  serious  effects  upon  the  person  who  persists 
in  swallowing  his  "g's" : 

1.  It  causes  a  restricted  throat,  and  consequently  a  tired  one. 


44  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

2.  It  causes  a  stoppage  of  pure  tone,  and  consequently  de- 
velops nasality. 

3.  It  shows  a  lack  of  care  and  culture. 

Practice  Exercises 
Repeat  the  following  exercises  with  distinctness  and  pre- 
cision : 

1.  Beng,  bang,  bawng,  bahng,  bong,  boong. 

2.  Deng,  dang,  dawng,  dahng,  dong,  doong. 

3.  Feng,  fang,  fawng,  fahng,  fong,  foong. 

4.  Geng,  gang,  gawng,   gahng,  gong,  goong,      (Hard  "g" 

sound.) 

5.  Heng,  hang,  hawng,  -haling,  hong,  hoong. 

6.  Jeng,  jang,  jawng,  jahng,  jong,  joong. 

7.  Keng,  kang,  kawng,  kahng,  kong,  koong. 

8.  Leng,  lang,  lawng,  lahng,  long,  loong. 

9.  Meng,  mang,  mawng,  mahng,  mong,  moong. 

10.  Peng,  pang,  pawng,  pahng,  pong,  poong. 

11.  Qeng,  qang,  qawng,  qahng,  qong,  qoong. 

12.  Reng,  rang,  rawng,  rahng,  rong,  roong. 

13.  Seng,  sang,  sawng,  sahng,  song,  soong. 

14.  Teng,  tang,  tawng,  tahng,  tong,  toong. 

15.  Veng,  vang,  vawng,  vahng,  vong,  voong. 

16.  Weng,  wang,  wawng,  wahng,  wong,  woong. 

17.  Yeng,  yang,  yawng,  yahng,  yong,  yoong. 

HOW  THE  WATER  COMES  DOWN  AT  LODORE 

By  Robert  Southey 

Receding  and  speeding,  and  shocking  and  rocking, 

And  darting  and  parting,  and  threading  and  spreading, 

And  whizzing  and  hissing,  and  dripping  and  skipping, 

And  brightening  and  whitening,  and  quivering  and  shivering, 

And  hitting  and  splitting,  and  shining  and  twining, 

And  rattling  and  battling,  and  shaking  and  quaking, 

And  pouring  and  roaring,  and  waving  and  raving, 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  45 

And  tossing  and  crossing,  and  flowing  and  growing, 

And  running  and  stunning,  and  hurrying  and  scurrying, 

And  glittering  and  flittering,  and  gathering  and  feathering, 

And  dinning  and  spinning,  and  foaming  and  roaming, 

And  dropping  and  hopping,  and  working  and  jerking, 

And  gurgling  and  struggling,  and  heaving  and  cleaving, 

And  thundering  and  floundering: 

And  falling  and  crawling,  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beaming, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 

Retreating  and  meeting  and  beating  and  sheeting, 

Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 

Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 

Recoiling,  turmoiling,  and  toiling  and  boiling, 

And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping, 

And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing, 

And  so  never  ending  but  always  descending, 

Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending; 

All  at  once,  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, 

And  in  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

— Abridged. 

Overcoming  the  Rising  Inflection 
One  of  the  most  effective  elements  of  convincing  speech  is 

the  inflection. 

By  inflection  is  meant  the  glide  of  the  voice  to  a  higher  or 

lower  pitch.     This  glide  may  be  quick  and  short,  or  long  and 

slow.     It  may  be  a  rising  or  falling  glide,  or  both. 

Complaints  are  constantly  being  made  against  the  improper 

use  of  the  "rising  inflection."     This  misuse  of  one  of  the  most 


46  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

invaluable  agencies  for  forceful  utterance  is  persistently  in- 
dulged in  by  the  majority  of  students.     It  is  a  common  fault. 

Its  disastrous  effect  does  not  lie  merely  in  ineffectiveness  of 
speech,  yet  that  in  itself  ought  to  be  sufficient  cause  for  its  cure, 
but  rather  in  its  destructibility  of  the  pupil's  will-power  and 
self-confidence.  The  pupil  who  has  persisted  in  answering 
with  a  question  mark  in  his  voice  is  indelibly  marked.  He  is 
likely  to  be  dependent  instead  of  independent  and  dependable ; 
he  is  groping  in  the  dark  for  a  crutch  in  order  to  keep  his 
mental  balance. 

The  most  flagrant  causes  for  such  improper  and  inexcusable 
speech  may  be  enumerated  under  two  heads : 

On  the  Part  of  the  Pupil 
The  pupil  is  not  sure  of  the  answer. 
The  pupil  wishes  to  please  the  teacher. 
The  pupil  is  not  sure  he  has  answered  enough. 
The  pupil  fears  he  will  make  a  mistake. 
The  pupil  waits  for  the  teacher  to  verify  his  answer. 
The  pupil  is  not  sure  of  what  he  intends  to  say. 
The  pupil  does  not  believe  what  he  says.     He  is  in  doubt. 
The  pupil  does  not  concentrate. 
The  pupil  is  careless  and  lazy. 

On  the  Part'  of  the  Teacher 

The  teacher  throws  out  suggestive  hints  of  the  answer  and 
the  pupil  answers  in  guesses. 

The  teacher's  question  has  not  been  clearly  put. 

The  teacher  has  not  definitely  planned  the  lesson  and  conse- 
quently uses  the  rising  inflection  too  often. 

The  teacher  does  not  demand  definite  and  clear  thought  from 
pupils. 

The  teacher  accepts  slovenly  work. 

The  teacher  grows  calloused  to  the  sound  of  the  inflection 
because  of  its  never  ceasing  recurrence. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  47 

Is  it  not  a  lamentable  fact  that  our  schools  have  not  given 
the  proper  attention  to  eradicating  this  common  and  inexcus- 
able fault?  Even  in  business  and  society  the  cultured  ear  is 
continually  annoyed  by  the  common  use  of  this  abomination. 

It  is  almost  unbelievable  that,  out  of  twenty-five  teachers 
recently  examined,  but  two  were  able  to  distinguish  the  good 
and  bad  qualities  of  their  own  voices.  Few  teachers  have  ever 
given  serious  thought  to  their  own  voices  as  invaluable  instru- 
ments in  the  carrying  out  of  their  duties. 

At  one  time  one  of  the  authors  made  a  careful  study  of  the 
effect  of  the  teacher's  voice  upon  pupils.  He  visited  the  same 
grade  at  the  same  hour  on  the  same  day  in  two  different  weeks 
and  in  two  different  school-rooms.     This  is  what  he  found. 

In  the  first  room  the  children  were  extremely  nervous,  rest- 
less, unhappy  and  irritable.  In  the  other  room  they  were 
quiet,  restful,  obedient  and  happy.  In  the  first  room  the 
teacher  used  a  hard  metallic  tone,  and  usually  spoke  in  quick, 
short  "jabs"  of  speech.  There  was  little  modulation  of  voice 
and  she  seemed  to  be  talking  continuously,  for  when  she  was 
silent  her  harsh  tones  seemed  to  continue  reverberating  in 
his  ears. 

In  the  second  room  the  teacher  had  splendid  poise  and  a 
pleasing,  well-modulated  and  natural  tone.  Her  voice  as  well 
as  her  general  manner  had  a  soothing  effect  upon  the  children, 
for,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  they,  as  well  as  herself,  were  not 
tired. 

How  often  we  hear  people  around  us  say  of  a  public 
speaker :  Why  doesn't  he  speak  so  that  people  can  hear  him  ? 
or  more  clearly  and  distinctly  ?  etc. 

During  the  training  of  would-be  officers  for  our  speedily 
required  army  quite  a  number  were  passed  as  incompetent  be- 
cause their  voices  were  inadequate  to  give  command.  Only 
recently  one  of  the  authors  was  present  at  a  high  school  mili- 
tary drill.     The  boy  in  command  had  a  high,  piping  voice,  of 


48  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

which  he  had  little  control,  and  he  was  openly  laughed  at  by 
his  fellows  to  his  intense  mortification  and  disgust.  A  good 
voice,  properly  trained  and  obedient  to  the  will  of  the  per- 
sonality behind  it  is  an  invaluable  asset  in  life  to  every  one. 

If  one  does  not  possess  it,  he  must  gain  it,  and  to  accomplish 
this  theory  is  of  little  or  no  avail.  The  student  must  practice 
diligently  and  persistently.  The  following  exercises  are  care- 
fully selected  for  the  purpose  of  giving  power  and  voice 
control. 

Exercises  in  Inflectional  Agility 
The  Rising,  Quick,  Short  Glide 

Note:     The  italicized  words  are  to  be  given  quick,  short,  ris- 
ing inflection. 

Attention.  Good  night! 

Get  on  your  mark!  get  set  I  go!    Sail  on!  Sail  on!  and  on! 

Company,  halt!  O  James!  come  here!  come  here! 

Get  ready,  aim,  fire!  Charge,  Chester,  charge! 

Hands  up!  On,  Stanley,  on! 

Halt!  who  goes  there?  Hats  off!  hats  off!  I  say. 

Strike  one,  strike  two;  out!  Now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour! 

All  aboard! 


"Yo,  ho,  lads!  yo  ho,  yo  ho! 
Joy,  joy  to  all,  for  we  must  go, 
Yo  ho,  lads!  yo  ho,  yo  ho!" 


"I  love,  ah!  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide." 


To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
'Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember'* 
'Give  us,  O  give  us,  the  man  who  sings  at  his  work!" 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  49 

The  Counting  Exercise 

t,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  8,  9,  10. 
1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  S,  9,  to. 
1,      2,      j,      4,      5,      6,      7,      8,      p,      10. 

(This  exercise  can  be  carried  on  indefinitely.) 

Indicate  the  Inflected  Words  in  the  Following  Excerpts 

We,  the  People  of  the  United  States,  in  order  to  form  a  more  per- 
fect Union,  establish  Justice,  insure  domestic  Tranquillity,  provide  for 
the  common  defense,  promote  the  general  welfare,  and  secure  the 
Blessings  of  Liberty  to  ourselves  and  our  posterity,  do  ordain  and 
establish  this  Constitution  of  the  United  States  of  America. 


Reading  maketh  a  full  man;  conference,  a  ready  man;  and  writing 
an  exact  man. — Francis  Bacon  :  "Of  Studies.*' 


He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

— S.  T.  Coleridge  :  "Ancient  Mariner." 


So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  "Thou  must," 

The  youth  replies,  "I  can." 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

The  Falling,  Quick,  Short  Glide 

Note:     Italicized  words  are  given  quick  and  short  falling  in- 
flections. 

Hold  that  line,  hold  that  line,  hold  that  line  hard. 
Good  night  (a  provincialism,  meaning  disgust  or  hopelessness). 
"Hence!  home,  you  idle  creature;  get  you  home!" 
"I  am  a  Jew." 

"Laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked   at  my  gains,  scorned   my  nation, 
thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies." 


50  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Indicate  the  Inflected  Words  in  the  Following  Excerpts 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Never  more." 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting! 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 

Leave  me  to  my  fate. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean,  roll  I 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies. 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

— Tennyson. 


"The  noise  that  twenty  or  thirty  lions  can  make,  deliberately  bent  on 
making  it  and  roaring  all  at  once,  is  unbelievable.  They  throw  their 
heads  up  and  glory  in  strength  of  lungs  until  thunder  takes  second 
place,  and  the  listener  knows  why  not  the  bravest,  not  the  most  danger- 
ous of  beasts  has  managed  to  impose  the  fable  of  his  grandeur  on 
men's  imagination." — Taleot  Mundy,  in  "The  Ivory  Trail." 


We're  foot— slog— slog— slog— sloggin'  over  Africa  1 
Foot — foot — foot — foot — sloggin'  over  Africa — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots — movin'  up  and  down  again!) 
There's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

Seven— six — eleven— five— nine-an'-twenty  mile  to-day- 
Four — eleven — seventeen — thirty-two  the  day  before — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots — movin'  up  and  down  again!) 
There's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

Don>t — don't — don't — don't — look  at  what's  in  front  of  you 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots — movin'  up  an'  down  again!) 
Men — men — men — men — men  go  mad  with  watchin'  'em, 
An'  there's  no  discharge  in  the  war! 

— Kipling. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  51 

The  Rising  Long  and  Slow  Glide 

Note :     The  italicized  words  are  given  a  long,  slow,  upward 
glide. 

"Now,  then,"  cried  Squeers,  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairway,  "are 
you  going  to  sleep  all  day,  up  there?" 


Breathes  there  a  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land !" 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  f 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well? 

— Scott. 


Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

— "Shelley. 


Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 
— Shakespeare. 

Indicate  the  Inflected  Words  in  the  Following  Excerpts 

There  were  seen,  side  by  side,  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest 
scholar  of  the  age. 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast  of 
Truth. 

He  has  this  day  surprised  the  thousands  who  hung  with,  rapture  on 
his  accents,  by  such  an  array  of  talents,  such  an  exhibition,  of  capacity, 
such  a  display  of  powers,  as  are  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  oratory ; 


52  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

a  display  that  reflects  the  highest  honor  on  himself — luster  upon  letters 
— renown  upon  parliament — glory  upon  the  country. —  Burke,  on 
"Sheridan." 


Better  to  smell  the  violet  cool  Better  to  sit  at  a  master's  feet 

Than  sip  the  glowing  wine;  Than  thrill  a  listening  state; 

Better  to  hark  a  hidden  brook  Better  suspect  that  thou  art  proud 

Than  watch  a  diamond  shine.  Than  be  sure  that  thou  art  great. 

The  Falling  Long  and  Slow  Inflection 

Note :     The  italicized  words  are  given  a  long,  slow,  downward 
glide : 

Whoever  would  have  thought  of  that! 
Yes,  it  is  gone  forever  and  ever. 
Well,  did  you  ever! 


Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 


No,  sirl  these  walls,  these  columns 
Shall  fly 
From  their  firm  base  as  soon  as  I. 


These  are  the  sins  I  fain 

Would  have  thee  take  away: 

Malice,  and  cold  disdain, 

Hot  anger,  sullen  hate, 
Scorn  of  the  lowly,  envy  of  the  great, 
And  discontent  that  casts  a  shadow  gray 
On  all  the  brightness  of  the  common  day. 

Indicate  the  Inflected  Words  in  the  Following  Excerpts 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 

His  pleading  voice  arose :  "O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fooll" 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  53 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  1 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble,  and  approved  good  masters, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  c»ld  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true;  true,  I  have  married  her. 


He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has  loved  her;  but  no  man 
deserved  less  at  her  hands. 
Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers. 
I  told  you  so.    And  you  will,  will  you? 

The  Hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  manl 


It  is  ten  o'clock: 
Thus  may  we  see  how  the  world  wags : 
'Tis  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine ; 
And  after  an  hour  more  'twill  be  eleven ; 
AncJ  so  from  hour  to  hour  we  ripe  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 


54  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  !hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee ! 

— Longfellow. 

Exercises  Containing  a  Variety  of  Inflections 

Let  each  pupil  decide  for  himself  what  he  believes  to  be  the 
most  effective  and  proper  inflections  in  the  following.  In  do- 
ing this  it  is  well  to  have  him  state  his  reason.  This  act  of 
reasoning  will  aid  him  in  concentrating  upon  the  thought 
matter. 

The  cold  feeble  dawn  of  a  January  morning  was  stealing  in  at  the 
windows  of  the  common  sleeping  room,  when  Nicholas,  raising  him- 
self on  his  arm,  looked  among  the  prostrate  forms  in  search  of  the 
boy  Smike. 

"Now,  then,"  cried  Squeer,  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairway,  "are 
y©u  going  to  sleep  all  day,  up  there?" 

"We  shall  be  down  directly,  sir." 

"Down  directly  1  You  had  better  be  downr  directly,  or  I'll  be  down 
on  some  of  you  in  less  time  than  directly.     Where's  that  Smike?" 

Nicholas  looked  round  again. 

"He  is  not  here,  sir." 

"Don't  tell  me  a  lie.     He  is." 

"He  is  not.     Don't  tell  me." 

Squeers  bounced  into  the  dormitory,  and,  swinging  his  cane  in  the 
air  ready  for  a  blow,  darted  into  the  corner  where  Smike  usually  lay 
at  night.     The  cane  descended  harmlessly.     There  was  nobody  there. 

"What  does  this  mean?     Where  have  you  hid  him?" 

"I  have  seen  nothing  of  him  since  last  night." 

"Come,  you  won't  save  him  this  way.     Where  is  he?" 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  pond  for  anything  I  know." — Charles 
Dickens. 


We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident:  that  all  men  are  created 
equal;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  inalien- 
able rights;  that  among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of 
happiness. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  55 

Breathes  there  a  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to   himself  hath  said, 

"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land!" 
Whose    heart    hath    ne'er    within    him   burned, 
As  home  his   footsteps   he   hath   turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no' Minstrel-raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The   wretch  concenter'd  all   in  self, 
Living,  shall   forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,   doubly  dying,    shall  go   down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 

— Scott. 


What  constitutes  a  state? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned; 

Not  bays   and  broad-armed   ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the   storm,  rich  navies   ride; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  :     men — high-minded   men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain. 

— Sir  William  Jones. 


What  a  piece  of  work  is  man!  How  noble  in  reason!  How  in- 
finite in  faculties !  In  form  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable ! 
In  action,  how  like  an  angel !  In  apprehension,  how  like  a  god ! — 
Shakespeare. 


56  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lender  be; 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend, 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all, — to  thine  own  self  be  true ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day,  . 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

— Shakespeare. 


There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune; 

Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 

Is  bound   in   shallows,   and   in   miseries. 

On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat; 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 

Or  lose  our  ventures. 

— Shakespeare. 


All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players: 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances, 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.    At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
And  then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.    And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like   furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress's  eyebrow.    Then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.    And  then  the  justice, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon, 
With  spectacle  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side; 
His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  57 

For  his  shrunk  shank;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  towards  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion, 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

— Shakespeare. 


Stay,  you  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it  down. 


These    are    the    gifts    I    ask 

Of  thee,  Spirit  serene : 

Strength  for  the  daily  task, 

Courage  to   face  the  road, 
Good  cheer  to  help  bear  the  traveler's  load, 
And,  for  the  hours  of  rest  that  come  between, 
An  inward  joy  in  all  things  heard  and  seen. 

— Van  Dyke. 


These  are  the  things  I  prize 

And  hold  of  dearest  worth : 

Light  of  sapphire  skies, 

Peace  of  the  silent  hills, 
Shelter  of  forests,  comfort  of  the  grass, 
Music  of  birds,  murmur  of  little  rills, 
Shadows  of  cloud  that  swiftly  pass, 

And,  after  showers, 

The   smell  of  flowers 
And  of  the  good  brown  earth, — 
And  best  of  all,  along  the  way,  friendship  and  mirth. 

— Van  Dyke. 


The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at*the'morn; 
Morning's    at    seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The   lark's  on   the  wing; 
The  snail's   on  the   thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's    right  with   the   world! 

—Browning. 


58  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unawares, 

That   the    lowest   boughs    and   the   brush-wood    sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While   the   chaffinch   sings   on   the   orchard   bough 
In  England — now  I 

— Browning. 


Day! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 
O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last: 
Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 
For  not  a  froth-flake"  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away; 
But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 

Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the  world. 

— Browning. 


Oh,  such  a  commotion  under  the  ground 

When  March  called,  "Ho,  there !  ho !" 
Such  spreading  of  rootlets  far  and  wide, 

Such  whispering  to  and  fro. 
And  "Are  you  ready?"  the  Snowdrop  asked; 

"'Tis  time  to  start,  you  know." 
"Almost,  my  dear,"  the  Scilla  replied; 

"I'll  follow  as   soon  as  you  go." 
Then,  "Ha!     Ha!     Ha!"    a  chorus  came 

Of  laughter  soft  and  low 
From  the  millions  of  flowers  under  the  ground — 
Yes — millions — beginning  to  grow. 

— From  "Nature  in  Verse."    By  kind  permission  of 
Silver,  Burdett  and  Company,  Publishers. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  59 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The   shattering  trumpet   shrilleth   high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

— Tennyson. 


Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss  till,  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across:    violets  were  born! 
Sky — what  a   scowl  of  cloud  till,  near  and   far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud :  splendid,  a  star ! 
World — how   it   walled  about  life  with   disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out:    that  was  thy  face  I 

— Browning. 


The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with   feet  of   silver 

Over  the  sands  of  goldl 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 
Now  singing  along  the   sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 

Though  they  flowed  so   far  apart, 
And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

That  turbulent,  bitter  heart. 

— Longfellow. 


A  horse!     A  horse!     My  kingdom  for  a  horse! 


60 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


Marcellus. 

Bernardo. 

Marcellus. 

Bernardo. 

Horatio. 

Bernardo. 

Marcellus. 

Horatio. 


Marcellus. 

Bernardo. 

Horatio. 

Marcellus. 

Bernardo. 


Peace,  break  thee  off ;  look,  where  it  comes  again  I 

In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that's  dead. 

Thou  art  a  scholar;  speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

Looks  it  not  like  the  king?  mark  it,  Horatio. 

Most  like :    it  harrows  me  with  fear  and  wonder. 

It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Question  it,  Horatio. 

What  art  thou  that  usurp'st  this  time  of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 

In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

Did  sometimes  march?  by  heaven  I  charge  thee,  speak! 

It  is  offended. 

See,  it  stalks  away! 

Stay!  speak,  speak!     I  charge  thee,  speak!     [Exit  Ghost.] 

Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 

How  now,  Horatio !  you  tremble  and  look  pale : 

Is  not  this  something  more  than  phantasy? 

What  think  you  on't? 

— Shakespeare. 


Gloucester.    Stay,  you  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it  down. 

Anne.  What  black  magician  conjures  up  this  fiend 

To  stop  devoted  charitable  deeds? 

Gloucester.   Villains,  set  down  the  corse ;  or,  by  Saint  Paul, 
I'll  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys  .  .  . 
Unmannered  dog!  stand  thou,  when  I  command: 
Advance  thy  halberd   higher   than   my  breast, 
Or,  by  Saint  Paul,  I'll  strike  thee  to  my  foot, 
And  spurn  upon  thee,  beggar,  for  thy  boldness. 

— Shakespeare. 


Brutus. 


Lucius. 
Brutus. 

Lucius. 


What,  Lucius!  ho!— 

I  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars, 

Give  guess  how  near  the  day. — Lucius,  I  say! — 

I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly. — 

When,  Lucius,  when?   Awake,  I  say!    What,  Lucius! 

Call'd  you,  my  lord? 

Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius: 

When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 

I  will,  my  lord. 

— Shakespeare. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES 


61 


Note:     The  following  is  good   for  the  direct  question  and 
direct  answer : 


Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 

Question*. 

Answer. 

Question. 

Answer. 


Hold  you  the  watch  to-night? 

We  do,  my  lord. 

Arm'd,  say  you? 

Arm'd,  my  lord. 

From  top  to  toe? 

My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Then  saw  you  not  his  face? 

O,  yes,  my  lord;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

What,  look'd  he  frowningly? 

A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Pale,  or  red? 

Nay,  very  pale. 

And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you? 

Most  constantly  .  .  . 

Stay'd  it  long? 

While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a  hundred.  .  .  . 

His  beard  was  grizzled?  no? 

It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 

A  sable  silver'd. 

— Shakespeare  (dialogue  between  Hamlet,  Marcellus 
and    Bernardo). 


"Yo  ho,  my  boys!"  said  Fezziwig.  "No  more  work  to-night. 
Christmas  Eve,  Dick.  Christmas,  Ebenezer !  Let's  have  the  shutters 
up,  before  a  man  can  say  Jack  Robinson !" 

You  wouldn't  believe  how  tho*  two  fellows  went  at  it!  They 
charged  into  the  street  with  the  shutters — one,  two,  three — had  'em  up 
in  their  places — four,  five,  six — barred  'em  and  pinned  'em — seven, 
eight,  nine — and  came  back  before  you  could  have  got  to  twelve, 
panting  like  race-horses. 

"Hilli-ho !"  cried  old  'Fezziwig,  skipping*  down  from  the  high  desk, 
with  wonderful  agility.  "Clear  away,  my  lads,  and  let's  have  lots 
of  room  here!    Hilli-ho!  Dick!     Chirrup,  Ebenezer!" — Dickens. 


What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck? 


I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal ! — good  news,  good  news  !  ha,  ha ! — Where  ? 
In  Genoa? 


62  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Exercises  Developing  Force  and  Rate  of  Speech 

The  Problem 

Here  is  a  classification  of  people  who  speak  peculiarly,  or 
incorrectly,  as  far  as  voice  is  concerned,  with  exercises  for 
correction. 

1.  There  are  those  who  speak  too  fast. 

2.  There  are  those  who  speak  too  slow. 

3.  There  are  those  who  speak  too  low. 

4.  There  are  those  who  speak  too  loud. 

5.  There  are  those  who  speak  too  short  with  no  melody  of 
tone. 

Yet  all  of  these  may  enunciate  and  pronounce  their  words 
well.  Besides  developing  distinctness,  we  must  gain  control 
and  adaptability  of  speech.  It  is  strange,  yet  true,  that  many 
speakers  never  increase  the  force  or  volume  of  their  voices 
when  addressing  a  large  assembly.  They  use  the  same  quiet, 
even  tone  appropriate  in  addressing  a  single  person.  What  is 
the  result?  They  generally  bore  the  audience,  even  though 
their  thoughts  may  be  brilliant.  There  is  no  excuse  for  this, 
as  a- few  hours'  study  and  practice  will  change  it.  Above  all 
things  one  who  attempts  public  speaking  must  speak  so  that 
he  can  be  heard.  It  is  essential,  therefore,  to  give  ourselves 
actual  practice  exercises  which  demand  force  of  utterance. 
Each  student  should  demand  of  himself  daily  oral  drill  upon 
certain  exercises  until  he  has  mastered  his  own  particular 
difficulty. 

The  best  means  of  accomplishing  this  is  to  use  material  from 
good  literature.  In  the  following  pages,  under  several  heads, 
is  a  variety  of  splendid  exercises  for  practice.  Commit  all,  or 
at  least  a  part,  to  memory.  Thus,  while  developing  your 
speaking  power,  you  will  be  cultivating  a  taste  for  the  best 
that  our  literature  affords. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  63 

To  Develop  Rapid  Speech 
Note:     In  developing  rapid  speech  be  careful  to  retain  clear- 
ness and  precision  of  utterance. 

Now  clear,  pure,  hard,  bright,  and  one  by  one,  like  hail-stones, 

Short  words  fall  from  his  lips  fast  as  the  first  of  a  shower, 

Now  in  two-fold  column  Spondee,  Iamb,  and  Trochee, 

Unbroke,  firm-set,  advance,   retreat,  trampling  along, — 

Now  with  a  sprightlier  springingness,  bounding  in  triplicate  syllables, 

Dance  the  elastic  Dactylics   in  musical  cadences  on; 

Now  their  voluminous  coil  intertangling  like  huge  anacondas, 

Roll  overwhelmingly  onward  the  sesquipedalian  words. 

— Browning. 
(The  above  should  be  rendered  in  not  less  than  eighteen 
seconds.) 

You  couldn't  pack  a  Broadwood  half  a  mile — 

You  mustn't  leave  a  fiddle  in  the  damp — 
You  couldn't  raft  an  organ   up  the   Nile, 

And  play  it  in  an  Equatorial  swamp. 
/  travel  with  the  cooking-pots  and  pails — 

I'm  sandwiched  'tween  the  coffee  and  the  pork — 
And  when  the  dusty  column  checks  and  tails, 

You  should  hear  me  spur  the  rearguard  to  a  walk! 
With    my    "Pilly-willy-winky-winky   popp !" 

(Oh,  it's  any  tune  that  comes  into  my  head!) 
So  I  keep  'em  moving  forward  till  they  drop; 

So  I  play  'em  up  to  water  and  to  bed. 

— Kipling. 


Under  his   spurning  feet,  the  road, 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flow'd 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  fire, 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  ire. 
But,  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

— Read. 


64  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Boot,   saddle,   to  horse,   and  away! 

Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 

Brightens  to  blue  from  its'  silvery  gray. 

I^oot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!  — Browning. 


A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  the  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all!    And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat.  — Longfellow. 


So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! — 

"She  is  won  1  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran: 

There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar?      — Scott. 


And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 
Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 
Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished! 

— Browning. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  65 

To  Develop  Slow  Speech 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away; 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire: 

Lo,  all  the  pomp  of  yesterday- 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  1 

— Kipling 


Do  you  know  the  pile-built  village  where  the  sago-dealers  trade- 
Do  you  know  the  reek  of  fish  and  wet  bamboo? 

Do  you  know  the  steaming  stillness  of  the  orchid-scented  glade 
When  the  blazoned,  bird-winged  butterflies  flap  through? 

It  is  there  that  I  am  going  with  my  camphor,  net,  and  boxes, 
To  a  gentle,  yellow  pirate  that  I  know — 

To  my  little  wailing  lemurs,  to  my  palms  and  flying-foxes, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  gol 

He  must  go — go — go  away  from  here  I 

On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue ! 
'Send  the  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  Springfret  comes 
o'er  you, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  youl 

— Kipling. 


Who  hath  desired  the  Sea? — the  sight  of  salt  water  unbounded — 
The  heave  and  the  halt  and  the  hurl  and  the  crash  of  the  comber 

wind-hounded? 
The  sleek-barreled  swell  before  storm,  gray,  foamless,  enormous,  and 

growing — 
Stark  calm  on  the  lap  of  the  Line  or  the  crazy-eyed  hurricane  blowing — 
His  Sea  in  no  showing  the  same — his  Sea  and  the  same  'neath  each 

showing — 
His  Sea  as  she  slackens  or  thrills? 
So  and  no  otherwise — so  and  no  otherwise — hillmen  desire  their  Hills ! 

— Kipling. 


66  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 

When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  on  this 
continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the 
proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. — Abraham  Lincoln. 


On  a  quiet  autumn  morning,  in  the  land  which  he  loved  so  well, 
and,  as  he  held,  served  so  faithfully,  the  spirit  of  Robert  Edward  Lee 
left  the  clay  which  it  had  so  much  ennobled,  and  traveled  out  of  this 
world  into  the  great  and  mysterious  land. 


It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad: 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

— Browning. 


Toll  for  the  brave  1 

The  brave  that  are  no  morel 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

— William  Cowper. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

— Tennyson. 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  67 

Toll!    Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
All  rivers  seaward  wend. 

Toll!    Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
Weep   for  the  nation's   friend. 

Every  home  and  hall  was  shrouded, 

Every  thoroughfare   was   still; 
Every  brow  was  darkly  clouded, 

Every  heart  was  faint  and  chill. 


Oh !  the  inky  drop  of  poison 
In  our  bitter  draught  of  grief! 

Oh!  the  sorrow  of  a  nation 
Mourning  for  its  murdered  chief! 

Toll!    Toll! 
Toll!    Tolll 

Bound  is  the  reaper's  sheaf- 
Toll!     Toll! 
Toll!    Toll! 

All  mortal  life   is   brief. 
Toll!    Toll! 
Toll!    Tolll 

Weep  for  the  nation's  chief! 

— Carmichael. 


Beautiful  was  the  night.  Behind  the  black  wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.  On  the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous  gleam  of  the 

moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and  devious  spirit. 

— Longfellow. 

To  Develop  Loud  Speech 
The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before: 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 
Was  "War!  War!  WAR!" 

— T.  B.  Read. 


68  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Katherine,  Queen  of  England,  come  into  the  court. 

Where  is  that  infernal  boy? 

As  for  me  and  my  house,  we  will  serve  the  Lord. 

A  horse !  a  horse !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse. 

Jove  with  us,  Jove  with  us! 

Forward,  the  Light  Brigade. 

Alight!    Alight!    Alight!    Alight! 


The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword ; 
"Sail  on  I  sail  on !  sail  on  1  and  on  1" 


Is  the  torrent  in  spate?    He  must  ford  or  swim. 

Has  the  rain  wrecked  the  road?    He  must  climb  by  the  cliff. 
Does  the  tempest  cry  "halt"?    What  are  tempests  to  him? 

The  Service  admits  not  a  "but"  or  an  "if." 
While  the  breath's  in  his  mouth,  he  must  bear  without  fail, 
In  the  name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland  Mail. 

— Kipling. 


Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again ! 

I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 

To  show  they  still  are  free.    Methinks  I  hear 

A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 

And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  home  again! 

Hail !  Hail !  Oh,  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look ! 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 

How  huge  you  are!  how  mighty,  and  how  free! 

Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine, — whose  smile 

Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 

Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 

Of  awe  divine,  whose  subject  never  kneels 

In  mockery,  because  it  is  your  boast 

To  keep  him  free!    Ye  guards  of  liberty, 

I'm  with  you  once  again !    I  call  to  you 

With  all  my  voice  1    I  hold  my  hands  to  you 

To  show  they  still  are  free! 

— Knowles   ("William  Tell"). 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  69 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered. 

— Tennyson. 


Hurrah !  the  land  is  safe,  is  safe ;  it  rallies  from  the  shock ! 
Ring  round,  ring  round,  ye  merry  bells,  till  every  steeple  rock ! 
Let  trumpets  blow  and  mad  drums  beat !  let  maidens  scatter  flowers ! 
The  sun  bursts  through  the  battle  smoke !    Hurrah !  the  day  is  ours  1 


Fight,  gentlemen  of  England!    fight,  bold  yeomen! 
Draw,  archers,  draw  your  arrows  to  the  head : 
Spur  your  proud  horses  hard,  and  ride  in  blood ; 
Amaze  the  welkin  with  your  broken  staves. 
A  thousand  hearts  are  great  within  my  bosom : 
Advance  our  standards,  set  upon  our  foes ! 
Our  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  Saint  George, 
Inspire  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons ! 
Upon  them !    Victory  sits  on  our  helms. 

To  Develop  Melody  of  Speech 

Now,  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile, 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 

Than  that  of  painted  pomp?    Are  not  these  woods 

More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court? 

Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam, 

The  seasons'  difference, — as  the  icy  fang 

And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 

Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 

Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say, 

"This  is  no  flattery :  these  are  counselors 

That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am." 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 

Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 

Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head; 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

— Shakespeare. 


72  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I; 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood,  bleached  and  dry. 

The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 
The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 

As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, 
One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

— Celia  Thaxter. 


If  all  the  skies  were  sunshine, 
Our  faces  would  be  fain 

To  feel  once  more  upon  them 
The  cooling  plash  of  rain. 

If  all  the  world  were  music, 
Our  hearts  would  often  long 

For  one  sweet  strain  of  silence, 
To  break  the  endless  song. 

If  life  were  always  merry, 
Our  souls  would  seek  relief, 

And  rest  from  weary  laughter 
In  the  quiet  arms  of  grief. 

— Van  Dyke. 


When  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 
With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 
"Witchery — witchery — witchery." 

— Van  Dyke. 


Oh,  the  throb  of  the  screw  and  the  beat  of  the  screw 
And  the  swinging  of  the  ship  as  she  finds  the  sea. 
Oh,  the  haze  of  the  land  as  it  sinks  from  view, 
The  land  that  is  dear  since  it  harbors  you- 


ARTICULATION  EXERCISES  73 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men. 

Wee  folks,  good  folks, 
Trooping  all  together, 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather! 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne? 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and  say, 
"Who  is  it  loves  me?  who  loves  not  me?" 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleep  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


74  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne? 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold, 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks. 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissed  me 

Laughingly,   laughingly ; 
And  then  we  would  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

— Tennyson. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  faults  and  failings  in  speech 
possessed  by  many  in  common,  there  are  the  special  and  spe- 
cific defects,  such  as  stammering,  stuttering,  lisping,  and  the 
like.  Every  defective  is  to  be  pitied,  as  many  professions  and 
occupations  are  of  such  a  nature  as  practically  to  bar  men  and 
women  who  cannot  speak  well.  There  are  the  social  and  eth- 
ical handicaps,  also,  to  be  considered,  as  well  as  that  of  eco- 
nomics. The  defective  speech  of  a  child  renders  him  the  butt 
of  his  playmates'  rude  and  often  brutal  jokes.  The  sensitive 
is  thus  driven  away  from  society.  He  becomes  a  solitary  and 
not  infrequently  his  life  is  ruined. 

Speaking  of  the  stutterer,  one  who  is  not  afflicted  by  this 
disease  (for  so  authorities  have  determined  it  to  be),  cannot 
realize  what  a  terrible  life  he  lives.  Dr.  Scripture,  of  Colum- 
bia University,  New  York  City,  who  is  one  of  the  greatest 
authorities  on  this  subject,  says :  "One  boy  often  threw  him- 
self on  the  floor,  begging  his  mother  to  tell  him  how  to  die. 
Another  boy  asked  for  a  letter  to  his  father,  telling  him  to  keep 
the  other  children  from  laughing  at  him.  Many  stutterers 
become  so  sensitive  that  they  imagine  everybody  is  constantly 
making  fun  of  them.  The  life  of  a  stutterer  is  usually  so  full 
of  sorrow  that  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  worth  living."  * 

The  speech  delinquent  is  shy,  timid,  super-sensitive,  con- 
stantly harboring  the  thought  that  people  are  laughing  at  him. 
He  gradually  shuns  society,  lives  unto  himself,  and  in  many 

1  Scripture,  "Stuttering  and  Lisping,"  p.  3. 

75 


76  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

instances  becomes  morally  depraved.  He  contracts  a  morbid 
outlook  upon  life  in  general,  and  often  is  driven  to  criminality. 
This  statement  is  no  exaggeration.  The  Board  of  Education 
in  New  York  City,  after  thorough  investigation,  found  that 
"one  school  child  in  four  suffers  from  speech  defect,"  and  that 
"among  boy  criminals,  nine  in  ten  suffer  from  the  same 
malady." 

In  the  Grand  Rapids  schools  classes  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
correcting  speech  defects  were  organized. 

The  mechanical  arrangement  was  as  follows:  Twelve  classes  were 
arranged  for  in  five  different  schools  with  a  half  hour  a  day  for  each 
class.  The  children  were  grouped  according  to  age,  kind  of  defect, 
etc.,  and  a  teacher  with  special  training  for  the  correction  of  speech 
was  sent  from  school  to  school  to  give  the  instruction. 

Our  plans  for  this  year  (1918)  are  practically  the  same  as  for  last 
excepting  that  we  have  more  special  teachers  and  will  be  able  to  reach 
a  greater  number  of  schools  and  give  more  time  to  individual  cases. 
.  .  .  During  the  school  year  of  1916-17,  we  had  under  instruction  107 
children  and  obtained  the  following  results : 

Normal    Almost  Normal    Improved  Total 

Stuttering    8  10  18                     36 

Organic  Lisping   ..12  4  3                       19 

Negligent  Lisping. .     24  5  29 

Neurotic    Lisping.  .3  4  5                      12 

Nasality    3  3 

Miscellaneous    3  1  4 

Indistinct    2  1  1                .4 

55  25  27  107 

This  year  we  will  have  under  instruction  of  our  special  teachers 
about  250  children,  and  in  addition  to  this  we  hope  to  work  for  cor- 
rection and  prevention  of  speech-defects  in  general  by  giving  instruc- 
tion in  voice  culture  and  corrective  phonetics  to  all  of  the  children 
of  the  primary  grades.  This  work  will  be  done  by  the  grade  teachers 
under  the  supervision  of  the  speech  department.1 

1  Pauline  B.  Camp,  "Correction  of  Speech  Defects  in  a  Public  School  System." 
"The  Quarterly  Journal  of  Public  Speaking"  for  October,   1917,  p.  304. 


CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS  77 

The  Problem 

A  person  with  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech,  due  prob- 
ably to  some  minor  organic  disorder,  could  be  much  helped 
by  the  average  teacher,  if  the  latter  would  give  this  subject  of 
speech  serious  consideration.  Of  course  there  are  cases  where, 
from  birth,  the  child's  speech  organs  have  been  impaired,  and 
again,  disease  or  some  surgical  operation  may  have  caused 
interference  with  their  proper  functioning.  In  such  cases  as 
these  a  speech  specialist  is  needed  and  often  medical  aid  as 
well. 

We  do  not  presume  to  suggest  with  any  degree  of  authority 
just  what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do  in  such  extremities,  but 
rather  to  present  a  few  fundamental  and  tried  principles 
which  have  proved  successful  in  many  cases.  There  are  two 
classes  whose  speech  defects  are  due  to  some  mental  cause — 
the  Stammerers  and  the  Stutterers. 

Characteristics  of  the  Stammerer 

The  stammerer  finds  it  extremely  difficult  to  begin  to  make 
any  audible  vocal  sound.  He  stares  blankly  at  you  with  a 
very  slight,  if  any,  suggestion  that  he  is  trying  to  speak.  For 
the  time  being  he  is  a  mute,  with  no  power  to  speak,  and  yet 
with  every  means  of  speaking.  This  is  a  pitiful  condition  in 
which  to  be. 

The  next  stage  finds  the  stammerer  able,  after  a  snapping  of 
his.fingers,  or  bending  of  his  knees,  or  lifting  up  of  a  foot,  or 
swinging  his«arms,  or  after  some  similar  bodily  action,  to  speak 
along  smoothly  with  no  suggestion  of  an  impediment  for  a  con- 
siderable period  of  time,  after  which  he  again  lapses  into 
silence.  The  following  characteristics  are  common  to  most 
stammerers : 

1.  He  is  inclined  to  speak  too  fast  when  started. 

2.  He  has  no  control  over  his  breathing. 


78  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

3.  He  often  endeavors  to  speak  during  inhalation  instead  of 

during  exhalation. 

4.  He  is  extremely  sensitive,  always  fearing  that  he  is  mak- 

ing a  mistake. 

5.  His  face  usually  carries  an  expression  of  bitter  sorrow 

and  despair. 

6.  He  is  usually  intensely  grateful  to  any  one  for  a  kind 

word  of  help. 

7.  He  tries  with  the  utmost  skill  to  conceal  his  defect. 

8.  He  is  usually  weak  physically. 

9.  He  is  usually  of  a  nervous  temperament. 

10.  He  usually  possesses  splendid  courage  and  high  ideals, 
which  too  often  are  destroyed  because  he  cannot  ac- 
complish them  with  this  weight  of  halting  speech  about 
his  neck. 

The  Stutterer 

The  stutterer,  unlike  the  stammerer,  is  able  to  make  an  audi- 
ble sound  at  will.  His  difficulty  lies  in  his  inability  to  say 
more  than  one  sound  until  he  has  repeated  the  initial  sound 
from  six  to  fifteen  times.  It  seems  that  he  must  get  up  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  speech  momentum :  "B-b-b-bring  me  th-th-th- 
that  b-b-b-book."  Or,  "W-w-w-well,  I  think  it  is  a  v-v-v-very 
fine  day." 

In  a  large  measure  the  causes  of  stuttering  and  stammering 
are  identical.  Stammering  is  stuttering  in  the  superlative 
degree.  What  is  true  of  the  stammerer  is  also  true  of  the 
stutterer,  with  the  exception  that  the  stutterer  is  less  melan- 
choly, and  less  conscious  of  his  defect. 

For  both,  or  either,  practice  in  simple  exercises  is  very  nec- 
essary, but  before  specific  training  is  given,  the  defective 
should  be  interviewed  concerning  his  health.  If  a  boy  or  girl 
is  not  given  sufficient  food  and  proper  food  (and  such  is  often 
the  case),  there  is  small  chance' for  speech  improvement.     Oft- 


CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS  79 

entimes  it  is  found  -that  these  speech  delinquents  are  playing 
too  hard  and  wasting  the  nervous  energy  which  should  be  util- 
ized in  mastering  their  vocal  impediment. 

The  most  successful  way  of  handling  these  problems  is  to 
have  the  defectives  placed  in  separate  classes  according  to  their 
particular  needs  and  ages.  Then  get  a  physician's  diagnosis 
of  each  individual  case.  This  diagnosis  generally  gives  the 
special  teacher  the  knowledge  necessary  for  intelligent  correc- 
tion. The  teacher  must  be  patient,  gentle,  sympathetic  and  yet 
determined.  She  herself  must  possess  ease  and  real  enjoy- 
ment in  speaking. 

Practice  Exercises 

1.  Speech  defectives  must  first  learn  how  to  relax.  They 
should  spend  at  least  ten  minutes  daily  at  home  lying  flat  on 
their  backs  concentrating  the  mind  on  separate  parts  until  the 
whole  body  is  completely  relaxed.  This  relaxation  exercise 
can  and  should  be  carried  on  daily.  At  school,  a  similar 
though  modified  exercise  should  be  attempted. 

2.  They  must  master  'diaphragmatic  breathing.  This  exer- 
cise should  follow  the  relaxation  exercise,  for  the  best  results 
are  obtained  while  lying  on  the  back ;  the  next  best  while  sitting 
erect. 

(a)  Inhale  slowly,  filling  lower  lobes  of  lungs  first,  and  then 
the  upper  part  of  chest.  While  doing  this  count  ten  men- 
tally ;  exhale,  counting  ten  mentally.     Repeat  five  times. 

(b)  Inhale  ten  counts  again,  hold  breath  five  counts,  exhale 
ten  counts.     Repeat  five  times. 

(c)  Inhale  slightly,  then  purse  lips  to  impede  the  air  as  it 
passes  out ;  now  give  one  short  puff  with  spasmodic  con- 
traction of  abdomen.  Repeat  five  times,  inhaling  slightly 
before  each  puff. 

(d)  Inhale  deeply,  then  give  one  long  puff  with  continuous 


78  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

3.  He  often  endeavors  to  speak  during  inhalation  instead  of 

during  exhalation. 

4.  He  is  extremely  sensitive,  always  fearing  that  he  is  mak- 

ing a  mistake. 

5.  His  face  usually  carries  an  expression  of  bitter  sorrow 

and  despair. 

6.  He  is  usually  intensely  grateful  to  any  one  for  a  kind 

word  of  help. 

7.  He  tries  with  the  utmost  skill  to  conceal  his  defect. 

8.  He  is  usually  weak  physically. 

9.  He  is  usually  of  a  nervous  temperament. 

10.  He  usually  possesses  splendid  courage  and  high  ideals, 
which  too  often  are  destroyed  because  he  cannot  ac- 
complish them  with  this  weight  of  halting  speech  about 
his  neck. 

The  Stutterer 

The  stutterer,  unlike  the  stammerer,  is  able  to  make  an  audi- 
ble sound  at  will.  His  difficulty  lies  in  his  inability  to  say 
more  than  one  sound  until  he  has  repeated  the  initial  sound 
from  six  to  fifteen  times.  It  seems  that  he  must  get  up  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  speech  momentum :  "B-b-b-bring  me  th-th-th- 
that  b-b-b-book."  Or,  "W-w-w-well,  I  think  it  is  a  v-v-v-very 
fine  day." 

In  a  large  measure  the  causes  of  stuttering  and  stammering 
are  identical.  Stammering  is  stuttering  in  the  superlative 
degree.  What  is  true  of  the  stammerer  is  also  true  of  the 
stutterer,  with  the  exception  that  the  stutterer  is  less  melan- 
choly, and  less  conscious  of  his  defect. 

For  both,  or  either,  practice  in  simple  exercises  is  very  nec- 
essary, but  before  specific  training  is  given,  the  defective 
should  be  interviewed  concerning  his  health.  If  a  boy  or  girl 
is  not  given  sufficient  food  and  proper  food  (and  such  is  often 
the  case),  there  is  small  chance* for  speech  improvement.     Oft- 


CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS  79 

entimes  it  is  found  that  these  speech  delinquents  are  playing 
too  hard  and  wasting  the  nervous  energy  which  should  be  util- 
ized in  mastering  their  vocal  impediment. 

The  most  successful  way  of  handling  these  problems  is  to 
have  the  defectives  placed  in  separate  classes  according  to  their 
particular  needs  and  ages.  Then  get  a  physician's  diagnosis 
of  each  individual  case.  This  diagnosis  generally  gives  the 
special  teacher  the  knowledge  necessary  for  intelligent  correc- 
tion. The  teacher  must  be  patient,  gentle,  sympathetic  and  yet 
determined.  She  herself  must  possess  ease  and  real  enjoy- 
ment in  speaking. 

Practice  Exercises 

1.  Speech  defectives  must  first  learn  how  to  relax.  They 
should  spend  at  least  ten  minutes  daily  at  home  lying  flat  on 
their  backs  concentrating  the  mind  on  separate  parts  until  the 
whole  body  is  completely  relaxed.  This  relaxation  exercise 
can  and  should  be  carried  on  daily.  At  school,  a  similar 
though  modified  exercise  should  be  attempted. 

2.  They  must  master  'diaphragmatic  breathing.  This  exer- 
cise should  follow  the  relaxation  exercise,  for  the  best  results 
are  obtained  while  lying  on  the  back ;  the  next  best  while  sitting 
erect. 

(a)  Inhale  slowly,  filling  lower  lobes  of  lungs  first,  and  then 
the  upper  part  of  chest.  While  doing  this  count  ten  men- 
tally ;  exhale,  counting  ten  mentally.     Repeat  five  times. 

(b)  Inhale  ten  counts  again,  hold  breath  five  counts,  exhale 
ten  counts.     Repeat  five  times. 

(c)  Inhale  slightly,  then  purse  lips  to  impede  the  air  as  it 
passes  out;  now  give  one  short  puff  with  spasmodic  con- 
traction of  abdomen.  Repeat  five  times,  inhaling  slightly 
before  each  puff. 

(d)  Inhale  deeply,  then  give  one  long  puff  with  continuous 


80  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

contraction  of  the  abdomen.     Repeat  five  times,  inhaling 
deeply  before  each  puff. 

3.  Tone  production  should  follow  breathing  exercises. 

(a)  Count  orally  1-1-1-1-1  with  spasmodic  abdominal  contrac- 
tion. Repeat  five  times.  Be  sure  that  breath  is  taken  in 
after  each  count. 

(b)  Count  orally  1-1-1-1-1  with  continuous  abdominal  con- 
traction.    Repeat  five  times. 

(c)  Inhale  deeply  and  count  orally  1  to  10,  stressing  every 
other  count.  Some  students  cannot  do  this  unless  the 
teacher  keeps  time  with  ruler  as  a  baton,  striking  some 
object.  Others  can  only  do  this  by  walking  slowly,  re- 
peating a  count  on  every  other  footfall.  Repeat  five 
times. 

(d)  Select  a  lyric  with  marked  rhythm  and  read  in  concert  in 
sing-song  style.  Repeat  each  stanza  five  times,  giving 
marked  pulsation  to  each  accented  syllable.  Tennyson's 
"Song  of  the  Brook"  is  especially  good  for  this  purpose. 

(e)  Take  a  simple  prose  selection  and  mark  it  off  in  thought 
groups,  and  then  read  slowly  and  measuredly  in  concert, 
giving  a  fairly  long  pause  between  each  group.  Hamlet's 
"Instructions  to  the  Players,"  and  Lincoln's  "Gettysburg 
Address"  are  splendid  for  such  work. 

When  the  defective  has  learned  to  speak  fluently  memorized 
work,  then  he  should  be  taught  confidence  in  simple  conver- 
sational exercises.  This  work  should  be,  so  far  as  possible, 
voluntary  on  the  part  of  the  pupil.  Let  the  class  form  a  cir- 
cle,, each  one  sitting  with  a  sense  of  ease  and  relaxation  and 
then,  as  they  are  inclined,  take  part  in  conversing  on  some 
simple,  interesting  topic.  Some  will  have  to  be  urged  to  par- 
ticipate while  others  find  great  delight  in  such  work. 

In  regard  to  training  in  enunciation,  this  work  has  been 


CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS  81 

found  to  be  more  successful  when  given  late  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  defective.  After  he  has  gained  confidence  in 
speech  ability  and  cultivated,  to  some  degree,  real  enjoyment 
in  voice  production,  he  is  better  prepared  to  consider  this  more 
or  less  purely  technical  training.  In  very  extreme  cases,  how- 
ever, it  will  be  ftfund  necessary  to  begin  speech  instruction 
with  him  as  you  would  teach  a  child.  Such  students  must  be 
taught  the  proper  control  of  lips,  tongue  and  jaw,  as  though 
they  had  never  learned  speech  at  all. 

Experts  who  have  devoted  a  lifetime  to*  the  study  of  speech 
evils  and  their  remedy  find  a  large  variety  cff  causes  for  them, 
as  well  as  immense  diversity  in  manifestation.  One  may  seem 
to  be  born  with  a  tendency  to  stammering,  stuttering  or  lisp- 
ing; another  can  trace  the  habit  to  a  fright,  to  imitation,  to 
some  exhaustive  disease,  to  nervous  timidity,  to  self -conscious- 
ness. But  whatever  the  cause,  or  however  the  evil  manifests 
itself,  it  is  a  living  nightmare,  a  dreadful,  ever-present  burden 
to  its  victim.  Hence  parents  and  teachers  should  seriously 
endeavor  to  correct  the  habit  as  speedily  as  it  is  discovered. 
For  if  it  be  long-continued  it  is  almost  sure  to  produce  shy- 
ness, timidity,  lack  of  necessary  self-reliance,  even  moroseness, 
sullenness  and  other  consequences  of  perpetual  unhappiness. 

At  the  outset  let  it  be  understood  clearly  that  all  harshness, 
unkindness,  or  severity  of  treatment  in  word  or  deed,  adds  to 
the  evil  and  renders  it  more  difficult  of  eradication.  The  vic- 
tim of  the  habit  is  to  be  sympathized  with,  and  lovingly  en- 
couraged. Yet  promptness,  firmness  and  persistency  are  essen- 
tial in  the  production  of  a  cure.  The  following  suggestions 
should  be  put  into  practice,  but  seldom  or  never  in  the  pres- 
ence of  strangers,  or  at  any  time  when  they  would  heighten 
the  sufferer's  embarrassment.  They  must  also  be  followed 
with  happy  cheerfulness. 

1.  When  a  victim  of  one  of  these  habits  begins  to  stammer 
or  stutter,  stop  him  immediately,  and  say  pleasantly  but  firmly 


82  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

and  crisply,  "Stop!"  Then  command:  "Take  a  deep 
breath !  Now  hold  it !  Now  think  of  what  you  want  to  say 
— each  word !"  Then  allow  the  stutterer  to  let  out  his  breath ; 
then  inhale  again  deeply,  and  begin  his  speech.  If  he  fails, 
see  that  he  begins  again.  Practice  this  as  often  as  you  can. 
Exercises  can  also  be  made  up,  following  the  same  procedure, 
that  will  be  of  incalculable  benefit,  as,  for  instance,  taking  a 
deep  breath,  then  repeating  as  much  of  the  alphabet  as  is  pos- 
sible before  breathing  again. 

2.  Cultivate  slowness  of  speech.  Insist  upon  words  being 
spoken  slowly,  with  great  distinctness  and  clearness  of  articu- 
lation. The  moment  stuttering  begins,  issue  the  commands: 
"Stop!  Deep  breath;  think;  breathe  out,  breathe  in;  now!" 
Let  the  teacher  say  his  words  very  slowly  and  constantly  en- 
tourage the  pupil  to  do  the  same. 

3.  Cultivate  the  habit  of  rapid  thinking.  This  can  be  done 
by  a  series  of  exercises  played  as  games  if  necessary.  For 
instance:  "The  Game  of  Names."  The  teacher  says, 
"Flower!"  The  pupil  replies,  "Rose."  If  the  teacher  has  a 
list  ready  he  can  call  out  his  names  as  quickly  as  possible,  such 
as,  Animal,  Tree,  Water,  Bird,  Dog,  etc.,  while  the  pupil 
responds,  Horse,  Oak,  River,  Sparrow,  Bulldog,  etc.  The  in- 
terest can  be  increased  by  repeating  a  generic  term,  requiring 
a  different  species  for  answer.  Flower,  Animal,  Tree,  Water, 
etc.,  can  have  a  score  or  more  of  different  answers. 

Another  exercise  in  prompt  thinking  is  that  of  "Association 
of  Ideas."  The  teacher  gives  out  a  name — whatever  'occurs  to 
him — as,  for  instance,  "Tree."  The  pupil  immediately  re- 
sponds, "Leaves."  Then  the  teacher  may  add,  "Autumn,"  and 
the  pupil,  "Poetry,"  and  so  on.  Or  the  associations  may  all 
be  required  from  the  pupil.  The  words  used  as  starters  should 
be  carefully  chosen,  of  course,  to  meet  the  mental  condition  of 
the  pupil;  such  words  as  Baby,  Doll,  Mamma,  Bed,  House, 
etc.,  being  good  for  children  of  tender  years. 


CORRECTION  OF  SPEECH  DEFECTS  83 

Another  excellent  exercise  is  that  of  "Contrasts  or  Differ- 
ences," where  the  teacher  says,  "Boy,"  and  the  pupil  responds, 
"Girl."  "Black"  calls  forth  "white,"  "heavy"  is  responded  to 
by  "light,"  etc. 

Equally  good  is  "Finishing  Quotations"  or  "lines" — pro- 
vided, of  course,  the  pupil  is  old  enough  for  such  a  mental 
exercise.  For  instance,  the  teacher  says,  "Everything  is  not 
gold,"  while  the  pupil  should  respond,  "That  glitters."  "My 
country,"  would  bring  out  "  Tis  of  thee,"  or  "Right  or  wrong." 

Anything  that  quickens  the  intellect  and  demands  ready  re- 
sponse is  of  material  help,  but  the  teacher  must  not  forget  that, 
in  this  mental-promptness  exercise,  slow  and  deliberate  speech 
also  are  essential  on  his  part  and  that  of  the  pupil. 

4.  Whenever  it  is  found  that  a  pupil  stammers  or  stutters 
over  a  word  beginning  with  a  consonant,  as,  for  instance, 
"bread,"  require  him  to  drop  out  the  initial  letter  and  say 
"read,"  or  even  "ead."  Such  words  as  pie,  Tommy,  tub,  butter, 
top,  bank,  tumble,  tell,  nut,  lap,  can,  be  used.  Let  him  say, 
"ie,"  "ommy,"  "ub,"  etc.  Then  when  he  is  sure  of  this  part 
of  the  word,  let  him,  after  taking  a  deep  breath,  try.  the  full 
word,  saying  it  again,  but  always  slowly  and  distinctly. 

5.  Teach  the  pupil  to  sing  his  sentences.  Begin  with  some 
simple  salutation,  as,  "Where  are  you  going?"  and  let  it  be 
sung  to  the  notes: 


Where      are      you    going?        I'm      go  -  ing     home. 

Then  let  a  response  be  sung  reversing  the  music,  "I'm  going 
home."  "How  do  you  do?"  "Where  are  your  father  and 
your  mother?"  "How  far  is  it  to  the  market?"  are  sentences 
that  can  be  sung.  The  teacher  should  invent  his  own  music 
and  words,  but  insist  upon  slow,  deliberate  utterances  of  tone 


84  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

and  word.     This  is  a  wonderful  help  in  certain  kinds  of  cases. 

6.  There  are  certain  simple  exercises  or  calisthenics  that 
materially  aid  in  strengthening  the  muscles  of  the  head,  neck, 
throat,  jaw,  etc.  The  teacher  can  utilize  these  according  to 
his  best  judgment.  Any  book  of  calisthenic  or  physical  exer- 
cises will  suggest  those  most  useful. 

7.  But  above  all,  in  seeking  a  cure  of  these  distressing  evils, 
use  the  psychical  or  spiritual  remedy.  Give  the  pupil  confi- 
dence that  God  never  intended  him  to  be  cursed  by  a  stammer- 
ing, stuttering,  or  lisping  tongue.  He  is  the  child  of  an  Infinite 
and  Loving  Father.  All  good  is  his,  if  he  will  learn  how  to 
take  it.  Urge  him  to  restful,  trustful  reliance  upon  the  tender 
help  of  the  Great  Power  outside  of  himself,  in  conjunction 
with  the  efforts  you  and  he  together  are  making  to  effect  a 
cure. 

To  the  teacher  who  needs  thorough  preparation  upon  this 
subject  we  can  commend  heartily  Dr.  E.  W.  Scripture's  book 
"Stuttering  and  Lisping,"  published  by  the  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, New  York. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION 

The  study  of  the  subject  of  enunciation  should  come  com- 
paratively late  in  the  development  of  the  pupil,  say,  beginning 
with  the  fifth  grade.  There  are  other  fundamentals  that  the 
pupil  should  be  well  grounded  in  before  any  definite  concen- 
tration of  effort  should  be  put  upon  enunciation. 

The  majority  of  children  and  adults  are  backward  in  mas- 
tering the  art  of  correct  speaking,  therefore,  if  the  teacher  be- 
gins by  expecting  the  pupil  to  be  accurate  in  enunciation,  which 
is  really  one  of  the  finishing  touches,  he  is  in  danger  of  dead- 
ening forever  the  desire  for  self-expression  and  enjoyment  in 
speaking. 

Pronunciation  should  precede  any  drill  in  enunciation.  The 
pupil  is  quick  to  grasp  correctness  in  right  pronunciation,  and 
desires  it  fully,  but  he  cares  little  for  enunciation.  Most  pu- 
pils will  shy  just  a  little  when  you  tell  them  that  the  proper  way 
to  pronounce,  or  rather  to  enunciate  the  word  education  is 
ed-u-ca-tion  and  not  ed-ji-ca-tion.  Or,  take  the  vowel  (a)  as 
in  ask,  which  should  be  pronounced  (a).  Invariably  the  un- 
tutored will  give  the  vowel  the  extreme  flat  sound  of  (a)  as 
in  hat,  and  will  think  that  he  is  affected  if  he  give  it  the  proper 
soft,  broad  sound.  He  will  likely  think  this  even  if  you  com- 
promise with  the  sounds. 

So  our  policy  has  been  to  forego  acute  criticism  in  enuncia- 
tion until  the  student  has  acquired  considerable  momentum  in 
speech-desire.     In  other  words,  we  are  more  interested,  during 

85 


86  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

his  early  studies,  that  he  develop  and  cultivate  the  desire  and 
will  to  express,  than  that  he  express  himself  accurately.  Then, 
later,  we  gradually  call  his  attention  to  his  slovenly  speech. 
Above  all  things  let  us  beware  of  quenching  the  sacred  fire  of 
spontaneity,  for  without  that  all  speech  loses  its  charm  and 
power.  Is  it  not  better  that  the  student  be  stimulated  to 
speech  action,  even  though  it  be  imperfect  in  some — even  in 
many — respects,  than  that  he  be  conscious  of  all  his  defects  and 
never  speak  at  all? 

Clearness  and  precision  in  enunciation  and  pronunciation 
mark  the  genuineness  and  strength  of  one's  character.  Even 
the  brightest  person,  if  he  mispronounce  his  words,  is  accused 
of  mediocrity  and  is  suspected  of  being  unaccustomed  to  the 
society  of  refined  and  cultured  people.  There  should  be  daily 
systematic  drill  in  childhood  when  correct  speech  habits  are 
most  quickly  and  firmly  established.  Another  great  advan- 
tage of  early  training  is  that  this  is  the  period  when  the  stu- 
dent is  least  self-conscious. 

There  are  three  essentials  for  clear  and  exact  enunciation 
and  pronunciation :  First,  an  acute  ear ;  second,  diligent  prac- 
tice; and  third,  constant  vigilance.  These  three  essentials 
should  be  kept  constantly  in  mind  in  carrying  out  the  follow- 
ing exercises.  We  should  first  see  that  the  student's  ear  can 
detect  the  correct,  pure  resonances,  and  then  pursue  vigorous 
practice  in  them.  At  first  this  kind  of  exercise  is  tedious  and 
irksome,  but  with  accomplishment  comes  keen  pleasure. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  vowel  sounds.  For  the  word  exer- 
cises we  shall  take  words  often  mispronounced  as  well  as 
poorly  enunciated.  Thus  we  shall  be  doing  two  important 
things :  cultivating  the  ear,  and  improving  word  production. 

Exercise  One 
The  vowels  are  either  long,  short,  or  diphthongal.     The  res- 


ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION         87 

onances  of  the  long  vowels  begin  at  the  back,  passing  through 
the  middle,  to  the  front  of  the  mouth.     Thus : 


The  above  represents  the  approximate  and  relative  openings 
of  the  mouth  in  long  vowels. 

You  notice  the  mouth  aperture  is  narrow  at  the  back,  wide 
in  the  middle  and  narrow  again  at  the  front.  For  practice 
AW  and  AH  and  OO  are  the  most  valuable  because  the  two 
chief  difficulties  of  the  student  are;  first,  to  open  his  mouth 
wide  enough,  and  second,  to  keep  his  speech  forward  on  the 
lips.  Usually  his  speech  is  throaty.  Practice  the  following 
in  concert  and  individually  in  order  to  secure  freedom  in  con- 
trolling the  mouth : 

1.  Repeat  E  A  AW  AH  O  OO  consecutively  on  the  same 
pitch. 

2.  Change  the  pitch  and  repeat  on  each  note  of  the  scale. 

3.  Give  a  decided  rising  inflection  to  each  vowel  sound. 

4.  Give  a  decided  falling  inflection  to  each  vowel  sound. 

5.  Give  a  decided  circumflex  inflection  to  each  vowel  sound. 

6.  Blend  them  altogether  by  the  straight  inflection  in  a  sing- 
ing tone. 

7.  Laugh  them  He  He  He  He,  Ha  Ha  Ha  Ha,  Haw  Haw 
Haw  Haw,  Hah  Hah  Hah  Hah,  Ho  Ho  Ho  Ho,  Hoo  Hoo 
Hoo  Hoo. 

Exercise  Two 

In  pronunciation  there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  way.  Some 
people  are  so  desirous  of  appearing  exact  in  this  matter  that 
they  often  introduce  superfluous  sounds.     For  example,  such 


88  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

persons  pronounce  evil  —  e'vil,   instead  of   e'vl;   towards  — 
to-wordz'  instead  of  to'-erdz. 

This  habit  of  introducing  an  extra  sound  that  is  unnecessary 
reflects  upon  the  learning  of  the  individual  quite  as  much  as 
the  neglecting  of  a  sound  that  is  necessary.  Let  us  not  at- 
tempt to  foster  extravagant  niceties  of  speech,  but  let  us  cul- 
tivate in  ourselves  and  our  pupils  an  appreciation  of,  and  a 
desire  for,  pure,  substantial,  and  impressively  spoken  English, 
showing  them  that  the  real  beauty  of  our  language  lies  in  its 
simplicity  and  its  inherent,  convincing  power. 

Exercises  in  Enunciation  and  Pronunciation 

Take  up  the  exercises  below  in  the  following  manner: 
First,  discover  the  correct  position  of  tongue,  lips  and  jaw  for 
producing  the  particular  sound  under  consideration.  Second, 
repeat  the  sound  many  times.  See  that  you  use  your  organs 
of  speech  properly  in  regard  to  the  positions  indicated  at  the 
beginning  of  each  vowel  exercise.  After  the  repetition  of 
each  sound,  let  lips,  tongue  and  jaw  relax  to  normal  position. 
Third,  in  repeating  the  words  be  sure  the  ictus  or  vocal  stroke 
is  properly  and  decidedly  placed. 

The  main  purpose  is  to  develop  pure  vowel  resonance,  but 
inflectional  freedom  may  be  cultivated  at  the  same  time,  if 
great  care  is  taken  not  to  interfere  with  the  correct  vocal  posi- 
tions of  tongue,  lips  and  jaw.  Beware  of  a  tendency  in  this 
direction.  (See  discussion  of  Inflection  in  another  part  of  this 
book.) 

Key  to  Pronunciation 

In  showing  the  correct  pronunciation  of  words  in  the  follow- 
ing exercises,  the  simplest  method  has  been  adopted.  The 
words  are  rewritten  with  a  set  of  letters  which  have  invariably 
the  same  sound  and  are  familiar  to  everyone. 

Webster's  New  International  Dictionary  and  Phyfe's  Words 
Often  Mispronounced  are  the  principal  authorities  consulted. 


ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION 


89 


The  authors  are  greatly  indebted  to  these  works  for  help  in 
determining  correct  pronunciation.  The  following  table  gives 
the  diacritical  marks  used  in  the  following  pages : 


fade 
.far 
,ask 
haU 
,hare 
.hat 


a. preface 

a  (no  mark)  final 

e eve 

e depend 

e bet 

e her 

e .recent 


J glide 

i idea 

i it 

o go 

6 obey 

6 absorb 

6 hot 

u blue 

u unite 

u surge 

a... but 

6b ooze 

6o book 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Awe" 

Note:  Tongue  sags  low  and  should  not  move;  contact1  is 
just  a  little  over  half  way  back  of  the  middle  of  the  mouth ; 
mouth  wide;  lips  well  rounded. 


alder — aj'der,  not  ai'der. 
almost — al'most,  not  al'must. 
also — al'so,  not  61'so. 
always — al'waz,  not  al'wuz. 


Chaucer — Chau'ser,  not  Chow'ser. 
Chicago — Shi-ca'go,  not  Shi-ko'go. 
cornet — kor'net,  not  kor-net'. 
exorbitant — egz-or'bi-tant. 


auction — ak'shun,  not  ok'shun. 
audience — a'di-ens,  not  6'jens. 
cauliflower — ka'li-flow-er,  not 

ko'li-flour. 
caldron — kal'drun,  not  kol'drun. 

falcon — fo'kn,  noj  fol'kun. 
for — for,  not  fur. 
ordeal — or'del,  not  6r-deT. 
ordinary — 6r'din-a-ri. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Star" 
Note :     Tongue  sags  and  is  widened ;  contact  is  low  and  in  cen- 
ter ;  mouth  open  wide ;  lips  relaxed  almost  normally. 

l  By  contact  is  meant  the  point  of  greatest  resistance  of  the  vocal  organs  to 
the  column  of  air. 


90 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


arctic — ark'tflc,  not  ar'tik. 
arduous — ar'du-tis. 
armistice — ar'mis-tis,  not 

ar-mis'tis. 
bazar — ba-zar\ 


encore — an-kor',  no{  en'kor. 
en  route — an  root',  not  en  rout. 
jar—  far,  not  fur. 
father— fa'  ther. 


soprano — so-pra'n5,  not  so-pran'6. 
staunch — stanch,  not  stanch. 
taunt — tant,  not  tant. 
tsar — zar. 


tarla  tan— tar'la-tan,  not  tarl'tan. 
Parsifal — par'sif-al. 
partisan — par'ti-zan. 
particularly— par-tik'yii-ler-li. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Ask" 

Note :     Tongue  sags  and  is  a  trifle  narrower  than  the  above 
resonance  in  a;  mouth  open  wide;  lips  relaxed 


asked — askt,  not  askt,  nor  ast. 
aversion — a-ver'shun,  not 

a-ver'zhun. 
bass  (fish) — bas,  not  bas. 
bath — bath,  not  bath. 

glass — glas,  not  glas. 
grant — grant,  not  grant. 
grasp — grasp,  not  grasp. 
mast — mast,  not  mast. 


chant — chant,  not  chant. 
contrast  (vb.)—  kon-trast',  not 

kon'trast. 
draft— draft,  not  draft. 
draught— draft,  not  draft. 

isinglass — I'zTng-glass,  not 

I-zun'glas. 
pianist — pi-an'ist,  not  pe'a-nist. 
aft— aft,  not  aft. 
casket— kas'ket,  not  kas'ket. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Can" 

Note :     Tongue  sags  and  widens ;  contact  is  front ;  mouth  open 
moderately  wide. 


accept— ak-sept',  not  ek-sept'. 
accurate— ak'ku-rat,  not  ak'ker-it. 
algebra — al'je-bra,  not  al'je-bra. 
a//;y— al-li',  not  al'li  (n)  and  (vb). 


and— and,  not  un,  nor  and. 
bade— bad,  not  bade. 
calcium— kal'si-um,  not 

kal'shi-um. 
camera— kam'e-ra. 


ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION         91 


canyon — kan'yiin. 
catchup — kach'up,  not  kech'up. 
chasm — kaz'm,  not  kaz'um. 
exact — egz-akt',  not  eks-akt'. 


flannel — flan'nel,  not  flan'nen. 
harass — har'as,  not  har-ras'. 
maritime — mar'i-tim,  not 

mar'i-tim. 
olfactory — 61-fak'to-ri,  not 
61-fak'tri. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Fade" 

Note:  This  is  a  diphthongal  or  double  sound  beginning  on 
arch  of  tongue  in  middle  of  mouth  and  moving  forward  to 
just  back  of  upper  front  teeth ;  mouth  is  open  wide  for  first 
resonance  but  narrows  for  second. 


aeronaut — a'er-6-nat. 
amiable — a'mi-a-bl. 
apparatus — ap-pa-ra'tus,  not 

ap-pa-ra'tus. 
apricot — a'pri-cot,  not  a'pri-cot. 


chaos — ka'os. 

Danish — da'nish,  not  da'nish. 
data — da'ta,  not  da'ta 
disgrace — dis-gras'. 


heinous — ha'nus,  not  he'nus. 
naked — na'ked,  not  ne'ked. 
acorn — a'kurn,  not  a'korn. 
patriotic — pa'tri-6t-ik,  not 
pat'ri-6t-ik. 


plague — plag,  not  pleg. 
slake — slak,  not  slak. 
wary — wa'ri,  not  wa'ri. 
ignoramus — lg-nd-ra'mus,  not 
ig-no-ra'mus. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Led" 

Note  :     Tongue  arched ;  contact  at  top  of  arch ;  mouth  moder- 
ately open ;  lips  relaxed. 


access — ak'ses,  or  ak-ses'. 
address — (n)  and  (vb)  ad-dres' 
cemetery — sem'e-ter-i,  not 

sem'i-tri. 
centennial — sen-ten'ni-al. 


excellent — ek'sel-ent,  not 
ek'slunt. 


equipage — ek'wi-paj,  not 

e-kwip'ej. 
equitable — ek'wi-ta-bl,  not 

e-kwi'ta-bl. 
every — ev'er-i,  not  ev'ri. 
evident — ev'i-dent,  not  ev'i-dunt. 


preface — (n)  and  (vb)  pref'as. 
legislature — lej  'is-lat-yur. 


92 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


exit — eks'it,  not  egz'it. 
exist — egz-ist',  not  eks'ist. 
irreparable — Ir-rep'a-ra-ble,  not 
lr-re-par'a-bl. 


generally — j  en'er-al-i. 
instead — in-sted',  not  in-stid'. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "We" 

Note:     Tongue   arched   to   upper    forward   position;   mouth 
aperture  narrow.    This  is  a  single  vowel  resonance. 


adhesive — ad-he'siv,  not  ad-he'ziv. 

aerial — a-e'ri-al. 

appreciate — ap-pre'shi-at,  not 

ap-pre'si-at. 
esprit — es-pre'. 

grievous — gre'vus,  not  gre'vi-us. 
guarantee — gar-an-te'. 
ideal — I-de'al,  not  I'del. 
immediately — im-me'di-at-li. 


evil — e'vl,  not  e'vil. 
fealty — fe'al-ti. 
fetish — fe'tish. 
genii — je'ni-i. 


remediable — re-me'dl-a-bl. 
tedious — te'di-us,  or  ted'yus. 
debris — da-bre'. 
hysteria — his-te'ri-a,  not 
his-tar'ri-a. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Creed" 

Note:  The  tongue  is  arched  upward;  tip  at  base  of  lower 
front  teeth.  This  is  a  double  sound.  The  mouth  has  a 
tendency  to  narrow  on  the  second  resonance. 


believe— be-lev',  not  blev. 
cleanly — (adv)  klen'li. 
congenial — kon-jen'yal,  not 

kon-jen'nl-al. 
evening — e'vn-ing,  or  ev'nlng. 


grease   (n) — gres. 
grease — (vb) — grez,  or  gres. 
idea — I-de'a,  not  I'de-a. 
sleek — slek,  not  slik. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Glide" 

Note:  This  is  a  double  sound.  Open  mouth  on  first  reso- 
nance with  contact  low  and  middle,  but  narrower  aperture  on 
second  with  contact  high  and  front.  Tongue  is  moderately 
low  on  first  resonance  and  then  arches  and  widens  on  second. 


ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION 


93 


bicycle — bi'sik-1,  not  bi-sik'l. 
blithe — blith  (th  is  sub-vocal). 
decisive — de-si'siv,  not  de-si'ziv. 
defile—  (n)  de-fil',  not  de'fil. 

device — de-vis. 
devise — de-viz. 
enquiry — en-kwi'ri,  not 

en'kwir-i. 
horizon — ho-ri'zon. 


defile—  (vb)  de'fil. 

demise — de-miz',  not  de-me*'. 

demoniacal — dem-o-ni'ak-al,  not 

de-mo'ni-ak-al. 
derisive — de-ri'siv,  not  de'ri-siv. 

in  cisive — in  -  si'  siv. 
incisor — in-si'zer. 
indictment — in-dit'ment,  not 

in-dik'ment. 
acclimate — ak-kli'mat,  not 

ak'klim-at. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "It" 

Note:     Tongue  arched  forward  high;  tip  behind  lower  front 
teeth ;  mouth  open  wide ;  contact  high  and  forward. 


bivouac — biv'wak. 
breeches — brich'ez. 
bristle — bris-1,  not  brist'l. 
chivalrous — shiv'al-riis. 


civil — siv'il,  not  siv'l. 
commiserate — kom-mlz'er-at,  not 

kom-mis'er-at. 
conflict— (vb)   kon-flikt';   (n) 

kon'flikt. 
considerable — kon-sid'er-a-bl,  not 

kon-sid'ra-bl. 


delivery — de-liv'er-T,  not 

de-liv'ri. 
grisly — griz'li,  not  gris'li. 
gristly — gris'li,  not  griz'li. 
infinite — in'  fin-it,  not  in-fi'nit. 


itinerary — i-tin'er-a-ri. 
licorice — lik'6-ris,  not  lik'rish. 
mischievous — mis'chi-vus,  not 

mis-che'vus. 
sinister — sin'is-ter,  not  si-nis'ter. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "On" 

Note:     Tongue  sags;  mouth  moderately  open;  lips  rounded; 
contact  low  and  back  of  center. 


accost — ak-kost',  not  ak-kost'. 
broth — broth,  not  broth. 
choler — kol'er,  not  ko'ler. 


column — kol'um,  not  kol'yum. 
combatant — kom'bat-tant,  not 
kom-bat'tant. 


94 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


chronological — kron-6-16g'ik-cal. 


dross — dros. 

economic — e-kd-nom'ik  or 

ek-6-nom'ik. 
hollow — hol'lo,  not  hol'la. 
homage — hom'aj,  not  hom'ij. 


comparable — kom'pa-ra-bl,  not 

kom-'par'a-bl. 
conversant — kon'ver-sant,  not 

kon-ver'sant. 

honest — on'est,  not  on'nust. 
honorable — on'or-a-bl,  not 

on'ra-bl. 
hostage — hos'taj,  not  hos'taj. 
hovel — hov'el,  not  huv'el. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Go" 

Note :  Tongue  sags ;  mouth  moderately  wide ;  lips  well 
rounded;  contact  midway  back.  This  is  a  single  sound 
"given  to  all  open  syllables." 


associate — as-so'shi-at,  not 

as-so'si-at. 
chorist — ko'rist,  not  kor'ist. 
cognomen — kog-nd'men. 
commodious — kom-mo'di-iis. 

deplorable — de-pld'ra-bl,  not 

de-plor'a-bl. 
diplomatist — di-plo'ma-tist. 
forensic — fd-ren'sik,  not 

for-en'sik. 
indecorum — m-de-kd'rum,  not 

in-dek'6-rum. 


comptroller — kon-tro'ler. 
Corot — ko-rd'. 
corporeal — kor-po're-al. 
decorum — de-ko'riim,  not 
de-kor'um. 

ivory — i'vo-ri,  not  lv'ri. 
oral — o'ral,  not  or'al. 
stony- 
trophy — tro'fi. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Home" 

Note:  This  is  a  double  sound.  The  first  resonance  is  iden- 
tical to  the  above  single  (o)  as  in  (Go),  but  for  the  second 
resonance  the  contact  is  the  upper  back  part  of  mouth  with 
widening  of  the  tongue. 

Azores— -az-orz',  not  a-zorz\  cote—  (rf)  kot,  not  kot. 

orooch— broch,  not  brooch.  divorce— div-ors',  not  div-ors'. 

console— kon-sol'.  homely— hom'li,  not  hum'li. 

corps  (military)— k5r;  (pi.)  korz.  oaths— othz  (sub-vocal)  not  oths. 


ENUNCIATION  AND  PRONUNCIATION 


95 


sword — sord,  not  sord  nor  s-word. 
won't — (will  not) — wont. 
yolk — yolk  or  yok,  not  yelk. 
recourse — re-kors'. 


shewn — shon. 
shew — sho. 
vaudeville — vod'vil. 
von — fon,  not  von. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Us" 

Note :     Tongue   sags ;   open  mouth ;   contact  about  half   way 
back  and  midway  between  the  upper  and  lower  jaw. 


adult — a-dult',  not  ad'ult. 
cunning — kun'mng,  not  kun'nin. 
government — guv'ern-ment,  not 

guv'er-ment. 
hundred — hun'dred,  not  hun'derd. 
promulgate — pro-mul'gat. 
pumice — pum'is. 


illustrate — ll-lus'trat,  not 

ill'u-strat. 
mongrel — mung'grel,  not 

mong'grel. 
muskmelon — miisk'melon,  not 

mush'melon. 
nuptial — nup'shal,  not  nup'shal. 
pumpkin — pump'kin,  not  punk'in. 
supple — sup'l,  not  soo'pl. 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Use" 

Note  :  Tongue  arched ;  mouth  well  open ;  contact  back  of  up- 
per front  teeth  for  first  resonance,  then  to  upper  back  part 
of  mouth  for  the  second ;  lips  well  apart  for  the  first  sound 
and  then  well  rounded  and  extended  for  the  second  with  a 
slight  sagging  of  the  tongue.     This  is  a  double  sound. 


blue — blti,  not  bloo. 

rude — rtid. 

rural — ru'ral,  not  rur'l. 

nuisance — nti'sans,  not  noo'sans. 


tulip — tu'lip,  not  too'lip. 
usually — fi'zhu-a-li,  not  uzh'li. 
virtue — vert'u,  not  ver'choo. 
stupid — stu'pid,  not  stoo'pud. 


newspaper — niiz'pa-per,  not 

ntis'pa-per. 
Tuesday — Tuz'da,  not  tooz'da. 
minutely — rrri-nut'li. 
tube — tub,  not  toob  nor  tyub. 

virtually — ver'tu-al-li,  not 

vert'choo-li. 
virulent — vir'yu-lent. 
vituperate — vi-tu'per-at. 
ablution — ab-lu'shun,  not 

a-bloo'shun. 


96 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


The  Vowel  Sound  as  in  "Choose" 

Note:  Tongue  sags  slightly  with  tip  at  base  of  lower  front 
teeth;  mouth  well  open;  lips  well  rounded  and  extended; 
contact  at  upper  back  part  of  mouth.  Notice  that  this  (oo) 
resonance  is  the  same  as  the  second  resonance  in  (u). 


booth — booth  (sub-vocal). 
Booth   (name) — booth. 
food — food,  not  food. 
roof — roof,  not  roof. 

spoon — spoon,  not  spoon. 
forsooth — for-sooth',  not  for-sooth' 

(sub-vocal). 
poor — poor,  not  poor. 
root — root,  not  root. 


coupon — koo'pon,  not  ku'pon. 
room — room,  not  rum  nor  room. 
broom — broom,  not  broom. 
hoof — hoof,  not  hoof. 

coop — coop,  not  coop. 
tour — toor,  not  tur. 
tournament — toor'na-ment  or 

tur'na-ment. 
troubadour — trcx/ba-door,  not 

troo'pa-dur. 


PART  TWO 

Identification  of  the  Reader  with  the  Story,  or  Sympathetic 

Reading 

FIRST  STEP.  Getting  the  author's  MOOD.  Catching  the 
author's  vision.  Emotional  response.  Distinguishing  between  or- 
dinary reading  and  reading  with  author's  emotional  appreciation. 
Emphasizing  value  of  MOOD.  Discussing  control  of  emotion. 
Repressed  feeling  versus  expressed  feeling. 

SECOND  STEP.  Word  meaning— relation  of  word  to  group. 
Associative  meaning  of  words.  More  vocabulary.  Study  of  tone 
color.    Use  of  Onomatopoeia. 

THIRD  STEP.  Study  of  Moods.  Variety  of  Moods.  Change 
and  inter-change  of  Moods  in  a  selection.  Human  nature  and 
Mood.  Colloquial  expressions  of  the  same  Mood  in  classical 
language. 

"Blessings  upon  all  the  books  that  are  the  delight  of  childhood  and 
youth  and  unperverted  manhood !  Precious  are  the  sympathetic  tears 
which  dim  the  page  and  which  it  is  so  wholesome  to  encourage  in 
early  life  as  a  check  to  the  growth  of  selfishness  and  egoism." — Hiram 
Corson,  "The  Voice  and  Spiritual  Education,"  p.  163. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD 
Hints  to  the  Student 

Before  the  pupil  is  ready  for  this  second  step,  Sympathetic 
Reading,  he  must  have  mastered  part  one,  Intelligible  Reading. 
The  first  step  was  concerned  primarily  with  the  development  of 
the  intellect,  but  the  second  step  appeals  primarily  to  the  emo- 
tions, one's  sympathetic  response  to  mood. 

The  outlines  for  the  study  of  a  selection,  given  later,  will 
be  found  very  helpful  as  a  basis  and  guide  for  study  and 
analysis. 

MEMORABILIA 
By  Robert  Browning 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 

And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 

How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  I 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world*,  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 

'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 

99 


rOO  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

THE  JOY  OF  THE  HUMAN  VOICE 

How  much  squandering  there  is  of  the  voice!  How  little  there  is 
of  the  advantage  that  may  come  from  conversational  tones!  How 
seldom  does  a  man  dare  to  acquit  himself  with  pathos  and*  fervor! 
And  the  men  are  themselves  mechanical  and  methodical  in  the  bad 
way  who  are  most  afraid  of  the  artificial  training  that  is  given  in  the 
schools,  and  who  so  often  show  by  the  fruit  of  their  labor  that  the 
want  of  oratory  is  the  want  of  education. 

How  remarkable  is  the  sweetness  of  voice  in  the  mother,  in  the 
father,  in  the  household!  The  music  of  no  chorded  instruments 
brought  together  is,  for  sweetness,  like  the  music  of  familiar  affection 
when  spoken  by  brother  and  sister,  or  by  father  and  mother. — Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  from  "Lectures  on  Oratory." 

The  one  great  object  in  reading  is  to  get  at  the  mind  of  the 
author.  What  did  he  mean  ?  What  did  he  intend  me  to  feel 
as  I  read  ?  What  is  his  real  message  ?  How  can  I  best  reach 
the  mind  and  heart  of  the  author,  the  poet,  the  dramatist, 
through  his  written  words? 

This  is  the  real  mission  of  literature,  and  he  is  a  poor 
teacher  who  fails  to  impress  the  heart  of  his  students  with  its 
importance.  Too  often  teachers  spend  the  valuable  time  of 
their  students  with  matters  of  entirely  subsidiary  importance, 
such  as  the  style  of  the  author,  questions  as  to  when,  where 
and  how  he  wrote,  his  figures  of  speech,  his  methods  of  com- 
position, and  the  like.  All  these  are  of  importance  to  those 
who  are  learning  to  write,  and  are  of  interest  to  others,  but 
the  prime  reason  for  all  literature  is  that  the  author  has  some- 
thing of  greater  or  lesser  importance  to  say,  which  he  wishes 
to  reach  the  mind  and  heart  of  his  reader. 

Take,  for  instance,  Browning's  exquisite  short  poem  above. 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  M>OD  'lOl 

What  good  does  it  do  the  student  to  Engage  his  attention'  witn 
Browning's  style,  his  verse  forms,  etc.?  To  him  the  matter 
of  prime  importance  is  that  he  shall  know  what  Browning 
meant. 

This  is  the  vital  question  in  all  reading. 

That  literature  which  is  a  mere  collection  of  fine  words, 
beautifully  arranged  in  perfect  sentences,  is  "as  sounding  brass 
and  a  clanging  cymbal."  To  have  any  real  significance  it  must 
be  surcharged  with  high,  lofty,  pure,  stirring  human  emotion ; 
and  to  feel  the  same  emotion  that  the  writer  felt  as  he  penned 
poem,  essay,  novel,  story  or  drama  is  the  aim  of  every  intelli- 
gent and  thoughtful  reader.  One  of  the  best  possible  ways  of 
accomplishing  this  is  by  reading  aloud — even  when  one  is 
alone.  One  writer  boldly  affirms  that  we  can  never  know  the 
vital,  spiritual  message  of  a  writer  until  we  have  put  his  words 
upon  our  tongue  and  sent  them  winging  away  in  speech, 
freighted  with  the  meaning  that  has  reached  our  minds. 

In  reading  carefully  this  poem  of  Browning,  observe  if  the 
very  nature  of  the  theme  does  not  demand  the  various  modu- 
lations of  the  human  voice  to  give  it  adequate  interpretation. 
Repeat  the  first  two  lines,  thinking  of  their  purpose,  and  then 
see  if  you  do  not  feel  somewhat  of  an  emotional  thrill  which 
must  be  akin  to  that  which  was  felt  by  Browning  when  he 
thought  of  his  great  teacher,  that  marvelous  poet,  Shelley. 

Is  it  possible  really  to  get  the  heart  throb  of  this  poem  un- 
less we  sing  it  out  through  the  voice?  The  major  portion  of 
time  spent  in  literary  study  should  be  through  oral  interpreta- 
tion. Let  a  pupil  read  to  you,  and  instantly  you  can  detect 
whether  or  not  he  understands  what  he  is  reading.  Corson 
said  he  believed  the  time  is  coming  when  examinations  in  lit- 
erature will  be  wholly  oral.     He  goes  on  to  say : 

Reading  must  supply  all  the  deficiencies  of  written  or  printed  lan- 
guage. It  must  give  life  to  the  letter.  How  comparatively  little  is 
addressed  to  the  eye,  in  print  or  manuscript,  of  what  has  to  be  ad- 


102-  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

dressed  to  the  ear 'by- the  reader  1  There  are  no  indications  of  tone, 
quality  of  voice,  inflection,  pitch,  time,  or  any  other  of  the  vocal  func- 
tions demanded  for  a  full  intellectual  and  spiritual  interpretation.  A 
poem  is  not  truly  a  poem  until  it  is  voiced  by  an  accomplished  reader, 
who  has  adequately  assimilated  it — in  whom  it  has,  to  some  extent, 
been  born  again,  according  to  his  individual  spiritual  constitution  and 
experiences.  The  potentialities,  so  to  speak,  of  the  printed  poem,  must 
be  vocally  realized.  What  Shelley,  in  his  lines  "To  a  Lady,  With  a 
Guitar,"  says  of  what  the  revealings  of  the  instrument  depend  upon, 
may  be  said  with  equal  truth  of  the  revealings  of  every  true  poem ;  it 

"Will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before," 

by  those  who  endeavor  to  get  at  its  secrets. — Hiram  Corson,  "The 
Voice  and  Spiritual  Education,"  p.  29. 

In  this  same  connection  let  us  add  what  Goethe  has  said : 

Persuasion,  friends,  comes  not  by  wit  nor  art, 

Hard  study  never  made  the  matter  clearer. 

'Tis  the  live  fountain  in  the  speaker's  heart 

Sends  forth  the  streams  that  melt  the  ravished  hearer; 

Then  work  away  for  life,  heap  book  upon  book, 

Line  upon  line,  precept  upon  example; 

The  multitude  may  gape  and  look 

And  fools  may  think  your  wisdom  ample — 

But  would  you  touch  the  heart,  the  only  method  known, 

My  friend,  is  first  to  have  one  of  your  own. 

Mood-Analysis 

The  following  is  an  illustration  of  what  might  be  called  the 
"mood-analysis"  of  a  selection.  For  the  sake  of  convenience 
the  sentences  in  the  excerpt  are  numbered.  The  important 
thing  for  the  student  to  bear  in  mind  is  to  see  that  the  author's 
purpose  is  completely  grasped,  and  then  render  it  in  the  proper 
mood. 

First:    Read  the  selection  paragraph  by  paragraph.     Then 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  103 

arrange  the  several  points  in  their  respective  order.     Now  give 
them  orally  as  simply  and  progressively  as  possible. 

Second:  Read  the  selection  again  by  paragraphs  and  this 
time  determine  what  are  the  important  and  unimportant  words. 
Then  give  these  important  words  a  greater  force  of  utter- 
ance. 

Third:  Do  not  fear  to  make  many  groups.  It  is  impera- 
tive to  grasp  the  author's  ideas  and  pictures  in  separate  detail. 
When  each  of  these  has  been  well  thought  over,  we  are  then 
ready  to  put  these  separate  parts  into  one  complete  and  har- 
monious whole. 

Fourth:  Determine  the  mood  which  dominates  each  sep- 
arate picture  or  detail,  then  see  how  these  fit  into  each  other, 
like  the  parts  of  a  picture  puzzle,  perfecting  the  thought  as  a 
whole  and  making  it  a  living,  harmonious,  mental  or  spiritual 
conception. 

THE  MAN  WHO  WEARS  THE  BUTTON 
By  John  Mellen  Thurston  * 

1.  Sometimes  in  passing  along  the  street  I  meet  a  man  who,  in  the 
left  lapel  of  his  coat,  wears  a  little,  plain,  modest,  unassuming  bronze 
button.  2.  The  coat  is  often  old  and  rusty;  the  face  above  it  seamed 
and  furrowed  by  the  toil  and  suffering  of  adverse  years ;  perhaps  beside 
it  hangs  an  empty  sleeve,  and  below  it  stumps  a  wooden  peg.  3.  But 
when  I  meet  the  man  who  wears  that  button  I  doff  my  hat  and  stand 
uncovered  in  his  presence — yea  1  to  me  the  very  dust  his  weary  foot  has 
pressed  is  holy  ground,  for  I  know  that  man,  in  the  dark  hour  of  the 
nation's  peril,  bared  his  breast  to  the  hell  of  battle  to  keep  the  flag  of 
our  country  in  the  Union  sky. 

4.  Maybe  at  Donaldson  he  reached  the  inner  trench;  at  Shiloh  held 
the  broken  line;  at  Chattanooga  climbed  the  flame-swept  hill,  or 
stormed  the  clouds  on  Lookout  Heights.  5.  He  was  not  born  or  bred 
to  soldier  life.    6.  His  country's  summons  called  him  from  the  plow,  the 

1  Lawyer,    Senator   from    Nebraska,    1895 — born   at    Montpelier,    Vt.,    1847, 


104  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

forge,  the  bench,  the  loom,  the  mine,  the  store,  the  office,  the  college, 
the  sanctuary.  7.  He  did  not  fight  for  greed  of  gold,  to  find  adventure, 
or  to  win  renown.  8.  He  loved  the  peace  of  quiet  ways,  and  yet  he 
broke  the  clasp  of  clinging  arms,  turned  from  the  witching  glance  of 
tender  eyes,  left  good-by  kisses  upon  tiny  lips  to  look  death  in  the  face 
on  desperate  fields. 

9.  And  when  the  war  was  over  he  quietly  took  up  the  broken  threads 
of  love  and  life  as  best  he  could,  a  better  citizen  for  having  been  so 
good  a  soldier. 

10.  What  mighty  men  have  worn  this  same  bronze  button!  Grant, 
Sherman,  Sheridan,  Logan,  and  an  hundred  more,  whose  names  are 
written  on  the  title-page  of  deathless  fame.  11.  Their  glorious  victories 
are  known  of  men;  the  history  of  their  country  gives  them  voice;  the 
white  light  of  publicity  illuminates  them  for  every  one.  12.  But  there 
are  thousands  who,  in  humbler  way,  no  less  deserve  applause.  13.  How 
many  knightliest  acts  of  chivalry  were  never  seen  beyond  the  line  or 
heard  of  above  the  roar  of  battle. 

14.  God  bless  the  men  who  wear  the  button  1  IS.  They  pinned  the 
stars  of  Union  in  the  azure  of  our  flag  with  bayonets,  and  made  atone- 
ment for  a  nation's  sin  in  blood.  16.  They  took  the  negro  from  the 
auction-block  and  at  the  altar  of  emancipation  crowned  him — citizen. 
17.  They  supplemented  "Yankee  Doodle"  with  "Glory  Hallelujah,"  and 
Yorktown  with  Appomattox.  18.  Their  powder  woke  the  morn  of  uni- 
versal freedom  and  made  the  name  "American"  first  in  all  the  earth. 
19.  To  us  their  memory  is  an  inspiration,  and  to  the  future  it  is  hope. 
— From  an  address  at  a  banquet  of  the  Michigan  Club  of  Detroit,  Feb- 
ruary 21,  1890. 

(To  find  the  designated  mood  of  any  sentence  in  the  above 
selection  refer  to  its  corresponding  number  below.) 

1.  Pleasant  meditation. 

2.  Pity  and  compassion. 

3.  Veneration  and  pride. 

4.  Heroism  and  triumph. 
5  and  6.     Loyal  self-denial. 

7  and  8.     Heroic  self-sacrifice. 
9.     Admiration  and  enterprise. 
10.     Compassion. 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  105 


11. 

Praise  and  honor. 

12  and  13.     Contrast. 

14. 

Supplication. 

15. 

Heroic  patriotism. 

16. 

Justice. 

17. 

Unity. 

18. 

Sublimity. 

19. 

Gratitude. 

Now  take  Joaquin  Miller's  magnificent  and  stirring  poem 
"Columbus"  and  analyze  it  in  the  same  fashion.  Here  is  the 
analysis  made  of  it  by  an  intelligent  reader  on  his  own  initia- 
tive, without  any  knowledge  of  the  method  we  would  have 
each  student  master  and  follow : 

A  Student's  Analysis  of  "Columbus" 

First  dwell  upon  the  outlines  of  the  history  of  Columbus, 
his  early  struggles  and  mastery  of  hardships.  Recall  that  it 
was  in  his  day  that  the  new  idea  of  the  rotundity  of  the  earth 
was  being  largely  discussed.  Watch  the  growth  of  this  idea 
in  his  thought,  until  there  springs  up  the  confident  assurance 
that  if  this  idea  be  true  it  must  be  possible  to  reach  India — 
or  any  other  land — by  sailing  around  the  earth  in  either  direc- 
tion. Confident  of  his  idea,  his  scientific  mind  demands 
knowledge,  demonstration.  He  seeks  help  to  find  out.  Is 
rebuffed  on  every  hand.  Called  crazy,  insane,  a  fool,  a  lunatic. 
The  idea  persists.  It  grows  into  an  obsession.  He  knows, 
and  now  his  soul  demands  that  he  compel  other  people  to 
know.  The  more  rebuffs  the  greater  his  determination.  Get 
hold  here  of  the  great  fundamental  thought  that  moves  the 
universe,  that  works  all  the  marvels  that  man  has  accom- 
plished, viz.,  that  when  you  link  up  with  Truth,  you  are  linked 
up  with  God — the  Supreme  Power  of  the  Universe — and  there 
cannot  be  any  failure  to  a  man  so  connected.     All  Columbus 


106  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

had  to  do  was  to  persist.  He  did  so,  and  finally  Isabella  and 
Ferdinand  were  convinced,  the  money  needed  was  raised,  the 
ship  provided,  and  the  happy,  joyous  Columbus  sets  sail  to 
demonstrate  to  the  world  that  which  his  soul  had  already  con- 
vinced him  was  true. 

Now  remember  the  ignorance  of  the  world  at  large  on  the 
subject.  Recall  that  his  sailors  were  densely  ignorant  and 
fearfully  superstitious,  but  Columbus  had  never  given  that  a 
thought. 

He  sets  sail,  full  of  delight,  happiness,  confidence.  Now 
refer  to  the  poem.  1.  He  and  his  sailors  alike  knew  that  the 
islands  of  the  Azores  and  the  Gates  of  Hercules  were  behind 
them.  2.  Here,  however,  is  a  difference  in  the  knowledge  of 
Columbus  and  his  sailors.  He,  with  the  eye  of  scientific  con- 
fidence, could  see  ahead,  though  there  was  nothing  in  sight  but 
shoreless  seas,  not  even  the  ghost  of  shores.  The  sailors  saw 
nothing  but  the  uncharted  and  unknown  seas.  Do  you  not  feel 
their  awe  and  superstitious  fears?  Can  you  not  picture  their 
fearful  whisperings  together  as  they  sail  further  and  further 
into  the  unknown?  The  mate  is  the  means  of  communication 
between  them  and  the  admiral.  3.  Observe  the  dread  of  sail- 
ors and  mate.  The  stars  with  which  they  are  familiar  disap- 
pear and  new  and  strange  ones  appear,  adding  new  fuel  to  their 
superstitious  fears.  4.  The  mate  asks  Columbus  how  he  shall 
reply  to  these  fears.  His  mood  is  one  of  fear  and  growing 
alarm  excited  into  the  action  of  questioning.  5.  Now  ask 
yourself:  What  would  be  Columbus's  natural  reply?  Re- 
member he  has  given  years  of  thought  to  this  subject.  He  has 
no  question  as  to  the  success  of  the  voyage.  Expecting  to  sail 
on  uncharted  seas,  they  have  no  fears  for  him.  He  knows 
what  he  will  find  when  he  has  gone  far  enough  around.  The 
fears  and  questions  of  the  mate  are  absurd,  preposterous. 
There  is  but  one  answer :  Calmly  and  confidently  he  gives  it, 
"Why,  say,  Sail  on!   and  on!"    Matter  of  fact,  almost  indif- 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  107 

ferent,  totally  unconscious  of  the  seething  fears  bubbling  up 
every  moment  afresh  in  the  hearts  of  his  sailors.  What  kind 
of  intonation  in  his  voice  would  such  a  question  call  forth? 

6.  For  the  time  being  the  questionings  of  the  men  are  sat- 
isfied, and  they  sail  and  sail  (don't  hurry  in  giving  this  repe- 
tition) as  winds  might  blow.  The  fears  and  questionings  now 
begin  afresh.  7.  The  fear  is  indicated  in  the  word  blanched, 
and  in  the  mate's  words.  8.  Being  away  from  familiar  scenes, 
and  all  other  men,  his  and  his  sailors'  small  minds  fear  that 
even  God  has  lost  sight  of  them.  The  winds  are  lost,  God  is 
not  here.  9.  Hence  there  is  increasing  urgency  in  his  second 
appeal  to  the  admiral.  But  Columbus  (10),  seeing  the  vision 
that  has  been  familiar  to  him  for  many  years,  and  preoccupied 
by  his  dream,  neither  sees  any  reason  for  fears,  nor  does  he 
yet  become  aware  of  the  fear  expressed  in  the  mate's  voice. 
His  reply,  therefore,  is  the  quiet,  scarcely  heard  voice  of  the 
dreamer,  given  much  lower  and  quieter  than  his  ordinary  talk- 
ing voice,  but  with  the  deep  intensity  of  a  man  who  has  but 
one  purpose. 

Pause  now  for  a  few  moments  to  allow  this  quiet  urge  of 
the  admiral  to  sink  in.  Don't  hurry.  Then  let  the  next  stanza 
open  with  some  degree  of  haste  and  excitement.  11.  The 
mate's  tone  now  is  one  of  definite,  open  remonstrance.  It  is 
all  very  well  for  his  admiral  to  say  "Sail  on !"  He — the  mate 
— has  to  come  in  direct  conflict  with  the  men.  They  are  grow- 
ing mutinous.  They  are  growing  ghastly  wan  and  weak. 
Even  he,  12,  had  begun  to  think  of  home  and,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, tears,  13  (for  is  not  this  suggested  in  "a  spray  of  salt 
wave"?)  washed  his  swarthy  cheek.  Hence  now,  his  ques- 
tion is  more  definite.  He  seeks  to  "pin"  the  admiral  down  to 
a  fixed  time,  14.  He  gives  him  until  dawn  to  see  land.  But 
the  admiral,  feeling  that  each  dawn  sees  him  nearer  to  the  goal 
of  his  heart's  desire,  and  impatient  that  the  foolish  fears  and 
unreasoning  terrors  of  his  men  should  even  threaten  the  pos- 


108  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

sible  thwarting  of  this  desire,  replies  sternly,  impatiently  and 
somewhat  fiercely,  15.  He  shall  say  at  break  of  day,  land  or 
no  land,  fears  or  no  fears,  but  one  thing,  and  he  puts  such  em- 
phasis upon  it  that  no  one  can  misunderstand. 

Here,  again,  pause.  Let  this  firm  determination  "seep"  into 
the  minds  of  the  hearers.  A  few  moments  is  long  enough,  but 
to  speed  on  immediately  to  the  fourth  stanza  is  to  lose  a  strik- 
ing effect.  Then,  in  perfectly  natural,  quiet  voice,  continue 
the  story:  They  sailed.  16.  Observe  the  repetition  of  this 
statement.  Why  is  it  repeated?  A  thoughtful  author  doesn't 
repeat  for  nothing.  Here,  by  the  repetition,  17,  Joaquin 
Miller  seeks  powerfully  to  impress  upon  his  reader  that  after 
they  had  sailed  a  long,  long  way  further,  they  still  sailed  on. 
Hence,  is  it  not  apparent  there  must  be  quite  a  little  pause  be- 
tween the  first  "they  sailed"  and  the  second  ?  Try  the-  effect 
of  this  and  see  the  result. 

Now,  18,  the  mate,  forced  by  his  own  and  his  sailors'  fears, 
though  assured  of  the  displeasure  of  the  admiral  at  his  voicing 
of  these  fears,  braves  his  anger  by  calling  his  attention  to  the 
coming  storm  on  the  sea,  19,  and  he  becomes  more  agitated 
as  he  expresses  his  own  fears,  20.  Yet  he  knows  the  courage 
of  the  admiral,  and  consciously  oi  unconsciously  pays  him  the 
tribute  of  bravery.  At  the  same  time,  as  hope  has  almost 
fled  from  the  bosoms  of  himself  and  his  shipmates  he  asks  the 
question,  pleadingly,  agonizingly :  "What  shall  we,  22,  do  when 
hope  is  gone?"  In  the  answer  all  of  Columbus's  exasperation, 
despair,  determination,  are  compressed.  Has  he  studied, 
prayed,  pleaded,  striven  for  years,  and  come  thus  far  to  be 
balked  by  the  fears  of  a  few  craven  cowards?  Is  he  now,  just 
now,  when  success  must  be  close  within  his  reach,  to  fail? 
No !  by  the  Eternal,  he  shall  not  fail !  The  childish  cries  of 
his  men  shall  not  avail.  He  will  compel  them  to  go  on,  and, 
as  though  he  were  maddened  beyond  control  his  words  "leap 
like  a  leaping  sword,"  23?  and  cleave  the  air  with  ringing 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  109 

sound  that  strikes  down  all  opposition,  Sail  on!  Sail  on!  sail 
on!  AND  ON! 

Let  the  crescendo  come  with  all  the  power,  force,  voice,  of 
which  you  are  capable.  Prepare  for  it.  Get  the  lungs  full  of 
air.  Put  all  the  intensity  and  passion  of  a  lifetime's  hopes, 
desires,  ambitions,  into  it,  and  feel  as  though  you  had  these 
cowardly  sailors  by  the  throat  and  were  determined  upon  pour- 
ing your  will  into  their  craven  souls. 

Again  pause,  before  going  to  the  last  stanza.  Elbert  Hub- 
bard and  his  wife,  both  of  whom  were  public  speakers  and 
readers  of  high  order,  regarded  this  sixth  stanza  as  an  anti- 
climax. Personally,  I  do  not.  Properly  given,  it  is  a  most 
powerful  climax  to  a  most  powerful  poem.  Ask  yourself: 
After  the  expression  of  an  overwhelming  emotion,  what  nat- 
ural reaction  is  felt?  One  of  weariness.  Add  this  thought 
to  the  thoughts  expressed  in  the  words.  Long  and  endless 
vigils,  harassment  from  his  men,  doubts  in  his  own  soul,  which, 
however,  he  dare  not  voice.  25.  That  night  was  so  dark  be- 
cause, crushed  by  long-continued  opposition,  and  his  body 
weakened  by  constant  watchfulness*  and  the  urge  of  his  pas- 
sion, even  he  lost  hope.  But  thanks  be  to  God,  there  are  men 
like  Columbus,  who,  even  when  hope  seems  gone,  when  there 
is  no  light  whatever  in  "that  night  of  all  dark  nights"  still  per- 
sist. For,  is  it  not  darkest  just  before  dawn?  Suddenly  our 
minds  are  transferred  to  the  lookout  man.     He  sees  a  speck, 

26.  Wonderingly  he  looks  at  it  again  and  again,  until  he  is 
assured  it  is  a  light,  so  he  gives  the  warning  cry :     "A  light !" 

27.  Now  notice  the  repetition  of  the  word  light.  Four  times 
it  appears.  Why?  Most  critics  account  such  repetitions  as 
proofs  of  an  author's  weakness,  but  they  little  know  Joaquin 
Miller  who  so  regard  his  repetitions.  Let  your  brain  work 
awhile.  Remember,  Columbus  and  his  sailors  have  been  weeks 
away  from  land,  sailing  on  unknown,  uncharted  seas.  They 
are  becoming  used  to  seeing  no  land*  nothing  but  seas  upon 


110  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

which  even  the  winds  have  lost  their  way.  Yet  the  lookout 
sees  a  light.  He  satisfies  himself.  He  gives  the  signal  call: 
"A  light !"  For  dramatic  purposes  we  can  imagine  that  every 
one  on  the  vessel  hears  it.  Incredulously  they  call  out  a  query : 
"A  light?"  It  cannot  be!  But,  sure  of  himself,  and  seeing 
it  more  clearly  each  moment,  the  lookout  assertingly  replies, 
"A  light!  I  tell  you!"  Then,  all  doubt  removed,  filled  with 
joy,  theii  fears  dispersed,  their  bodings  and  apprehensions  re- 
moved, the  sailors  hysterically  and  joyously  unite  in  the  cry: 
"A  light !"  and  the  reason  for  the  four  "a  lights  I"  is  made  clear. 

Now,  the  poet,  28,  changes  the  thought  and  rapidly  intro- 
duces figures  of  speech.  The  light  on  the  first  land  seen  by 
Columbus  ultimately  grows  to  the  "starlit  flag  of  freedom"  of 
the  United  States,  the  flag  of  the  people,  the  flag  of  a  true 
republic,  the  flag  of  genuine  democracy.  But  it  grew  further, 
29.  That  light,  and  that  flag,  grew  to  be  "Time's  burst  of 
dawn."  In  other  words,  until  all  men,  everywhere,  in  every 
way,  are  free,  mankind  is  still  in  the  night.  The  dawn  comes 
only  when  men  can  be  themselves,  as  God  intended  they  should 
when  he  created  them.  Hence  triumphant  joy  should  be  ex- 
pressed in  speaking  of  this  flag,  and  what  it  means  to  the  world. 

Then,  calmly,  quietly,  bring  the  mind  back  to  the  admiral. 
What  did  he  gain  ?  30.  "A  world."  And  he  gave  that  world 
its  grandest  lesson,  that  of  persistence  in  following  the  vision 
of  the  higher  and  larger  things,  On,  Sail  on! 

COLUMBUS 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores  1 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 

Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores,2 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 

The  good  mate  3  said :    "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 

Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?"4 

"Why,  say,5  'Sail  on !     Sail  on  and  on !'  " 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  111 

They  sailed  arid  sailed  6  as  winds  might  blow 
Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  7  said : 
"Why,  now,  not  even  God  would  know, 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead.8 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 
For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone, 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak,  what  shall  I  say  ?"  9 
He  said,10  "Sail  on !     Sail  on  and  on !" 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ; 1X 
My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak!" 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;12  a  spray13 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say, 
If  we  sight14  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say,  at  break  of  day,15 
Sail  on !     Sail  on !     Sail  on  and  on !" 

They  sailed.16   They  sailed.17   Then  spake 18  the  mate : 

"This  mad  sea 10  shows  his  teeth  to-night, 

He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait 

With  lifted  teeth,20  as  if  to  bite! 

Brave  Adm'r'l,21  say  but  one  good  word ; 

What  shall  we  22  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 

The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword  :23 

"Sail  on  I    Sail  on !    Sail  on !  and  on !" 

Then  pale  and  worn,24  he  paced  his  deck 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that  night t5 

Of  all  dark  nights !    And  then  a  26  speck — 

Alight!27    Alight?    Alight!    Alight! 

It  grew,28  a  starlit  flag  unfurled*! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn.29 

He  gained  a  world,30  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  less'n:     "On!  Sail  on!" 

A  Suggestive  Outline  for  the  Study  of  a  Selection 

I.     Mastery  of  Main  Theme 

The  first  step  in  the  study  of  any  selection  is  to  gain  an  idea 
of  it  as  a  whole.     This  can  best  be  done  by  reading  the  selec- 


112  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

tion  in  its  entirety.  If  there  should  be  strange  words,  let  them 
pass  for  the  time  being.  Thus  we  grasp  the  predominant  mood 
and  significant  setting  or  situation. 

II.     Progressive  Analysis 

Read  the  selection,  silently,  a  second  time.  The  aim  now  is 
to  make  a  mental  note  of  the  several  parts  which  make  up  the 
whole.  This  demands  close  concentration,  in  order  that  we 
may  unify  matters  and/  prevent  abrupt  transitions.  We  are  to 
break  up  the  whole  into  parts,  and  each  part  represents  a 
thought  group. 

1.  Punctuation  makes  the  meaning  clear,  and  the  clear  mean- 
ing determines  the  various  groups.  Example:  "It  came, 
rushing  in  torrents  like  an  avalanche  of  rock."  We  do  not 
pause  after  "came,"  although  it  is  so  punctuated.  Question: 
Do  you  find  like  instances  in  the  selection  under  consideration  ? 
Where? 

2.  The  length  and  frequency  of  the  pause  which  sets  off  the 
groups  is  dependent  upon  the  context  and  upon  the  listeners. 
If  the  context  is  serious,  or  if  the  listeners  are  uneducated, 
there  will  of  necessity  be  many  groups.  And  obversely,  if  the 
context  is  not  serious  or  difficult,  or  if  the  audience  is  edu- 
cated, there  will  be  fewer  and  longer  groups. 

Question :     What  is  the  situation  in  the  present  selection  ? 

3.  In  the  study  of  the  chief  word  in  the  group  we  must  re- 
member that  its  real  meaning  depends  upon  its  relation  to  the 
other  words  in  the  same  group.  For  instance,  the  word  "fire" 
does  not  mean  the  same  thing  at  all  times.  The  meaning  of 
this  word  depends  upon  its  kinship  with  other  members  of  the 
same  group.  When  we  say,  "The  house  is  on  fire,"  this  word 
"fire"  means  an  altogether  different  thing  than  when  we  say, 
"There  is  a  fire  in  the  stove  this  morning."  Let  us  take  care 
that  we  do  not  isolate  words,  but  that  we  get  their  associative 
meanings. 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  113 

Questions:  What  are  the  important  words  in  the  various 
groups?  What  is  the  real  meaning  of  each?  Why?  Give 
five  synonyms  of  each. 

III.     Reference  to  Experience 

We  are  now  prepared  to  call  upon  our  storehouse  of  past 
experiences  in  order  that  we  may  identify  ourselves  more 
closely  with  the  author's  meaning.  We  are  to  react  upon  what 
we  read.  The  more  vividly  we  can  bring  what  we  read  from 
the  page  into  our  own  actual  experience,  the  more  deeply  are 
we  impressed  with  its  meaning.  We  translate  the  unseen,  the 
unfelt  and  unbelieved  by  likening  it  to  what  is  already  seen,  felt 
or  believed.  If  experience  is  lacking,  we  draw  upon  our  imag- 
ination. 

1.  If  we  are  reading  a  description,  we  will  see  this  scene  in 
terms  of  a  past  like  experience. 

2.  If  we  are  reading  a  narration,  we  will  feel  it  in  terms  of 
a  past  like  experience. 

3.  If  we  are  reading  something  we  have  not  believed,  we 
will  accept  it  in  terms  of  what  we  have  already  believed. 

Question :  What  experiences  does  this  selection  call  upon 
from  me  ?     What  purposes  do  they  serve  ? 

IV.     Classification 

There  are  three  divisions  into  which  all  selections  may  be 
put.  A  selection  may  be  written  to  make  something  Clear; 
it  may  be  for  the  purpose  of  inspiring,  or  elevating  one's 
thoughts  and  feelings — to  make  Impressive;  it  may  be  for  the 
purpose  of  enforcing  some  great  truth — to  make  Belief.  This 
classification  is  based  upon  the  author's  purpose. 

Questions:  Where  the  author's  purpose  is  to  make  Clear 
soma  obscure  point  or  idea. 

1.  What  significant  words  are  used? 

2.  Is  there  any  obscurity?     Why? 


114  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

3.  What  illustrations  or  comparisons  are  made? 

4.  Think  earnestly  of  an  experience  which  will  aid  you  to 
see  clearly  the  author's  purpose. 

Where  the  author's  purpose  is  Impressiveness 

1.  Is  the  emotion  aroused  pleasurable? 

2.  Have  you  had  an  experience  which  resembles  what  is 
referred  to? 

3.  What  mood  is  predominant  ?    Is  it : 
Impassioned,  grave,  sad, 
Triumphant,  exalted,  solemn, 
Humorous,  satirical,  pathetic, 
Inspiring,  enheartening,  discouraging? 

4.  What  are  the  minor  moods?  Supply  your  own  de- 
scriptive mood  if  none  of  the  following  are  adequate : 
Fanciful,  enthusiastic,  cheerful, 

Dreamy,  sentimental,  witty, 

Pensive,  tender,  serene,  quiet, — or  suggestive  of 

Awe,  loneliness, 

Admiration,  suspense,  joy,  anger, 

Fear,  rage,  sympathy,  grief,  sorrow,  surprise,  anxiety. 

Where  the  author's  purpose  is  Belief.     The  author  does 
more  than  make  us  see,  or  feel. 

1.  What  actual  experience  have  you  had  that  resembles 
the  thing  the  author  would  have  you  believe  ? 

2.  Do  you  accept  as  truth  what  you  have  read  ? 

3.  What  particular  thought  carries  the  most  conviction  ? 

4.  Do  you  think  others  should  believe  what  the  author 
says? 

5.  Is  it  clear  and  impressive,  and  do  you  believe  it? 

V.     Setting 

This  has  to  do  with  time,  place,  objects,  sounds,  movement, 
or  anything  that  gives  local  color  to  the  selection. 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  115 

Questions : 

1.  Is  it  modern  or  old? 

2.  Where  is  the  scene  laid? 

3.  Are  descriptions  given  in  detail  or  mere  suggestion? 

4.  Is  dialect  used  ? 

5.  Will  personation  aid  in  rendering  the  selection  ? 

6.  Does  the  power  and  beauty  of  the  selection  lie  in  nar- 
ration, description,  or  in  character  drawing? 

7.  Name  some  definite  things,  sounds  or  objects  described, 
that  give  color  or  atmosphere. 

8.  Is  the  movement : 
Slow,  swift,  light,  heavy, 
Tripping,  graceful,  spirited, 
Powerful,  easy,  varied? 

VI.     Vocalization 

Let  our  guide  be  as  Shakespeare  has  so  well  put  it : 

Let  your  own  discretion  be  your  tutor.  Suit  the  action  to  the  word ; 
the  word  to  the  action;  with  this  special  observance — that  you  o'erstep 
not  the  modesty  of  nature. 

1.  Read  the  selection  as  ordinary  conversation. 

2.  Now  read  again  as  enlarged  conversation,  or,  as  it  were, 
for  the  ears  of  many. 

3.  Ask  yourself  the  following  questions : 

(1)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Pitch? 

(2)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Pause? 

(3)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Inflection? 

(4)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Tone  Color? 

(5)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Stress? 

(6)  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  Movement? 

4.  At  all  times  let  us  remember  that  our  purpose  is  not  to 
give  a  pleasing  performance,  but  faithfully  to  interpret 
the  author's  meaning. 


116  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

A  Condensed  Outline  for  the  Study  of  a  Selection  for 
Oral  Presentation 

I.  Intelligent  Impression 

A.  General  Preparation 

Read  silently  the  entire  selection.  The  purpose  is  to  gain  an 
impression  of  the  selection  as  a  whole. 

1.  What  was  the  author's  purpose  in  writing  this  selection? 

2.  What  specific  intent  did  he  have : 

a.  To  make  something  clear? 

b.  To  make  something  impressive? 

c.  To  establish  a  truth  ? 

d.  To  stimulate  to  righteous  action  ? 

3.  Consult  the  dictionary  for  the  meaning  of  strange  words. 

4.  Look  up  the  historical  references. 

B.  Special  Preparation 

Read  the  selection  silently  a  second  time.  The  aim  is  to 
make  a  mental  note  of  the  respective  importance  of  the  several 
parts  which  make  up  the  whole. 

1.  What  is  the  definite  idea,  or  definite  picture,  or  definite 
feeling  the  author  would  have  us  get? 

2.  In  what  part  of  the  selection  is  the  author's  aim  most 
forcibly  presented  ? 

3.  What  is  the  relative  value  of  the  thought-groups  ? 

II.  Intelligible  Expression 
A.     General  Preparation 

Before  rendering  a  selection  orally  it  must  be  given  a  set- 
ting. This  has  to  do  with  time,  place,  objects,  sounds,  move- 
ments, or  anything  that  tends  to  give  local  color. 

1.  Is  the  selection  colloquial  or  dramatic? 

2.  Is  dialect  used  ? 

3.  Will  personation  be  necessary  ? 


GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOOD  117 

4.  Give  an  original  word-picture  of  the  characters  and  sit- 
uation. 

5.  To  what  reference  to  experience  does  it  make? 

6.  What  is  the  predominant  mood  ? 

B.     Special  Preparation 

Read  the  selection  aloud  for  the  first  time.     In  doing  this, 
ask  yourself : 

1.  Am  I  reading  with  correct  thought-groups? 

2.  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  the  pause?  (Remember  the 
length  and  frequency  of  the  pause  depends  upon  the  na- 
ture of  the  subject  and  the  audience.) 

3.  Am  I  enunciating  clearly  ? 

4.  Is  my  voice  melodious?  That  is,  do  I  make  proper  use 
of  pitch  and  inflection? 

5.  Am  I  conscious  of  the  change  and  interchange  of  moods? 

6.  Do  I  make  proper  use  of  stress  and  movement? 

7.  Do  my  tones  fit  the  color-words  ? 

8.  Am  I  faithfully  and  adequately  interpreting  the  author's 
meaning  ? 


PROSE  SELECTIONS 

Humorous 
Pathetic 
Dramatic 
Dialect 
THE  JOY  OF  READING 

Who  can  estimate  the  joy,  comfort  and  inspiration  reading  has  af- 
forded to  the  human  race,  how  many  weary  hours  it  has  solaced,  how 
many  distracted  minds  it  has  quieted,  how  many  harassed  souls  it  has 
soothed  into  f orgetf ulness  ?  Who  has  not  felt  the  thrill  of  discovery 
when  he  has  found  a  new  author,  a  new  poet  who  peculiarly  affected 
his  mind,  his  soul,  his  risibilities,  his  ambitions,  his  life?  I  shall  never 
forget  when  I  found  Charles'  Warren  Stoddard's  "Apostrophe  to  a 
Skylark."  It  was  buried  in  one  of  his  books  and  few  seemed  ever  to 
have  read  it.  There  was  joy  incalculable  in  putting  it  side  by  side  with 
Shelley's  classic  "Ode*  and  comparing  the  two  conceptions.  Thousands 
of  souls  have  been  inspired  by  reading  to  higher,  nobler,  more  worthy 
endeavor.  So,  like  Sancho  Panza,  we  bless  God  and  thank  Him  for 
the  man  who  invented  reading.— George  Wharton  James. 


119 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 
NATHAN  FOSTER 
By  Paul  L.  Dunbar 

Nathan  Foster  and  his  lifelong  friend  and  neighbor,  Silas  Bollender, 
sat  together  side  by  side  upon  the  line-fence  that  separated  their  respec- 
tive domains.  They  were  both  whittling  away  industriously,  and  there 
had  been  a  long  silence  between  them.     Nathan  broke  it,  saying: 

"  'Pears  to  me  like  I've  had  oncommon  good  luck  this  year." 

"Wall,  you  have  had  good  luck,  there  ain't  no  denyin'  that.  It  'pears 
as  though  you've  been  ee-specially  blest." 

"An'  I  know  I  ain't  done  nothin'  to  deserve  it." 

"No,  o'  course  not.  Don't  take  no  credit  to  yourself,  Nathan.  We 
don't  none  of  us  deserve  our  blessings,  however  we  may  feel  about 
our  crosses ;  we  kin  be  purty  shore  o'  that." 

"Now,  look,  my  pertater  vines  was  like  little  trees,  an'  nary  a  bug 
on  'em." 

"An'  you  had  as  good  a  crop  of  corn  as  I've  ever  seen  raised  in  this 
part  of  Montgomery  county." 

"Yes,  an'  I  sold  it,  too,  jest  before  that  big  drop  in  the  price." 

"After  givin'  away  all  yer  turnips  you  could,  you  had  to  feed  'em  to 
the  hogs." 

"My  fruit  trees  jest  had  to  be  propped  up,  'an  I've  got  enough  per- 
serves  in  my  cellar  to  last  two  or  three  winters,  even  takin'  into  con- 
sideration the  drain  o'  church  socials  an'  o'  charity." 

"Yore  chickens  are  fat  and  sassy,  not  a  sign  o'  pip  on  'em." 

"Look  at  them  cows  in  the  fur  pastur.  Did  yer  ever  see  anything  to 
beat  'em  fer  sleekness?" 

"Wall,  look  at  the  pasture  itself;  it's  most  enough  to  make  human 
beings  envy  the  critters.  You  didn't  have  a  drop  of  rain  on  yer  while 
you  was  gettin'  in  yer  hay,  did  yer?" 

"Not  a  drop." 

"An'  I  had  a  whole  lot  ruined  jest  as  I  was  about  to  rick  it." 

121 


122  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Silas,  sich  luck  as  I'm  a-havin'  is  achilly  skeery ;  it  don't  seem,  right." 

"No,  it  don't  seem  right  for  a  religious  man  like  you,  Nathan.  Ef 
you  was  a  hard  an'  graspin'  Sinner,  it  'ud  be  jest  makin'  you  top-heavy 
so's  yore  fall  'ud  be  the  greater." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  that's  it,  anyhow.  Mebbe  I'm  a-gettin'  puffed 
up  over  my  goods  without  exactly  knowin'  it." 

"Mebbe  so,  mebbe  so.  Them  kind  o'  feelin's  is  mighty  sneakin' 
comin'  on  a  body.  O'  course  I  ain't  seen  no  signs  of  it  in  you ;  but 
it  'pears  to  me  you'll  have  to  mortify  yore  flesh  yit  to  keep  from  being 
purse-proud." 

"Mortify  the  flesh?" 

"O'  course,  you  can't  put  peas  in  yore  shoes  er  get  any  of  yer  frien's 
to  lash  you,  so  you'll  have  to  find  some  other  way  of  mortifyin'  yer 
flesh.  Wall,  fer  my  part,  I  don't  need  to  look  fur  none,  fur  I  never 
had  too  many  blessin's  in  my  life,  less'n  you'd  want  to  put  the  children 
under  that  head." 

Silas  shut  his  jack-knife  with  a  snap  and,  laughing,  slid  down  on  his 
side  of  the  fence.  In  serious  silence  Nathan  Foster  watched  him  go 
stumping  up  the  path  toward  the  house. 

"Silas  seems  to  take  everything  so  light  in  this  world;  I  wonder 
how  he  can  do  it." 

With  Nathan,  now,  it  was  just  the  other  way.  Throughout  his  eight 
and  forty  years  he  had  taken  every  fact  of  life  with  ponderous  serious- 
ness. Entirely  devoid  of  humor,  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  signs,  omens, 
tokens,  and  judgments.  He  was  a  religious  man,  and  his  wealth 
frightened  and  oppressed  him.     He  gave  to  his  church  and  gave  freely. 

As  usual,  he  had  taken  his  friend's  bantering  words  in  hard  earnest 
and  was  turning  them  over  in  his  mind. 

The  next  morning  when  Nathan  and  Silas  met  to  compare  notes, 
Nathan  began : 

"I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  last  night,  Silas,  about  me 
mortifyin'  my  flesh,  and  it  seems  to  me  like  a  good  idee.  I  wrasselled 
in  prayer  last  night,  and  it  was  shown  to  me  that  it  wa'n't  no  more'n 
right  fur  me  to  make  some  kind  o'  sacrifice  fur  the  mercies  that's  been 
bestowed  upon  me." 

"Wall,  I  don't  know,  Nathan ;  burnt-offerings  are  a  little  out  now." 

"I  don't  mean  nothin'  like  that;  I  mean  some  sacrifice  of  myself, 
some — " 

His  sentence  was  broken  in  upon  by  a  shrill  voice  that  called  from 
Silas  Bollender's  kitchen  door: 

"Si,  you'd  better  be  a-gittin'  about  yore  work  instid  o'  standin'  over 


HUMOROUS  123 

there  a-gassin'  all  the  mornin'.  I'm  shore  I  don't  have  no  time  to  stand 
around." 

"All  right,  Mollie;  speakin'  of  mortifyin'  the  flesh  an'  makin'  a  sac- 
rifice of  yoreself,  Nathan,  why  don't  you  git  married?" 

Nathan  started. 

"Then  you'd  be  shore  to  accomplish  both.  Fur  pure  mortification  of 
the  flesh,  I  don't  know  of  nothin'  more  thoroughgoin'  er  effectiver 
than  a  wife.  Also  she  is  a  vexation  to  a  man's  sperit.  You  raaly 
ought  to  git  married,  Nathan." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"It  looks  to  me  that  that  'ud  be  about  as  good  a  sacrifice  as  you 
could  make;  an'  then  it's  such  a  lastin'  one." 

"I  don't  believe  you  realize  what  you  air  a-sayin',  Silas.  It's  a 
mighty  desprit  step  that  you're  advisin'  me  to  take." 

Again  Mrs.  Bollender's  voice  broke  in : 

"Si,  air  you  goin'  to  git  anything  done  this  mornin',  er  air  you  goin' 
to  stand  there  an'  hold  up  that  fence  fur  the  rest  of  the  day?" 

"Nathan,  kin  you  stand  here  an'  listen  to  a  voice  an'  a  speech  like 
that  an'  then  ask  me  if  I  realize  the  despritness  of  marriage?" 

"It's  desprit,  but  who'd  you  advise  me  to  marry, — Silas,  that  is,  if  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  marry, — an'  I  don't  jest  see  any  other  way." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  pickin'  out  wives  fur  anybody,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  might  be  doin'  a  good  turn  by  marryin'  the  Widder  Young.  The 
Lord  'ud  have  two  special  reasons  fur  blessin'  you  then ;  fur  you'd  be 
mortifyin'  yore  flesh  an'  at  the  same  time  a-helpin'  the  widder  an'  her 
orphans." 

"That's  so."  He  couldn't  admit  to  Silas  that  he  had  been  thinking 
hard  of  the  Widow  Young  even  before  he  had  of  mortifying  his  flesh 
with  a  wife. 

Once  decided,  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  put  his  plans  into  execu- 
tion. But  he  called  Silas  over  to  the  fence  that  evening  after  he  had 
dressed  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  widow. 

"Wall,  Silas,  I've  determined  to  take  the  step  you  advised." 

"Humph,  you  made  your  mind  up  in  a  hurry,  Nathan." 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  any  use  a-waiting;  ef  a  thing's  to  be  done, 
I  think  it  ought  to  be  done  and  got  through  with.  What  I  want 
particular  to  know  now  is,  whether  it  wouldn't  be  best  to  tell 
Lizzie — I  mean  the  widder — that  I  want  her  as  a  means  of  morti- 
fication." 

"Wall,  no,  Nathan,  I  don't  know  as  I  would  do  that  jest  yit;  I  don't 
believe  it  would  be  best." 


124  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"But  if  she  don't  know,  wouldn't  it  be  obtainin'  her  under  false  pre- 
tenses if  she  said  yes?" 

"Not  exactaly  the  way  I  look  at  it,  fur  you've  got  more  motives  fur 
marryin'  than  one." 

"What!     Explain  yoreself,  Silas;  explain  yoreself." 

"I  mean  you  want  to  do  her  good  as  well  as  subdue  your  own 
spent" 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  so." 

"Now,  no  woman  wants  to  know  at  first  that  she's  a  vexation  to  a 
man's  sperit.  It  sounds  scriptual,  but  it  don't  sound  nooptial.  Now 
look  at  me  an'  Mis'  Bollender.  I  never  told  her  until  we'd  been  mar- 
ried more'n  six  months;  t»ut  she  didn't  believe  it  then,  an'  she  won't 
believe  it  till  this  day." 

"Wall,  I'll  agree  not  to  tell  her  right  away,  but  if  she  consents,  I 
must  tell  her  a  week  or  so  after  we  are  married.  It'll  ease  my  con- 
science. Ef  I  could  tell  her  now,  it  'ud  be  a  heap  easier  in  gittin'  round 
the  question.     I  don't  know  jest  how  to  do  it  without." 

"Oh,  you  won't  have  no  trouble  in  makin'  her  understand.  Matri- 
mony's a  subject  that  women  air  mighty  keen  on.  They  can  see  if  a 
marts  a-poppin'  the  question  ef  he  only  half  tries.  You'll  git  through 
all  right." 

Somewhat  strengthened,  Nathan  left  his  friend,  and  sought  the 
widow's  home.  He  found  her  stitching  away  merrily  under  the  light 
of  a  coal-oil  lamp  with  a  red  shade. 

"La,  Nathan,  who'd,  a'  expected  to  see  you  up  here  ?  You've  got  to 
be  such  a  home  body  that  no  one  don't  look  to  see  you  out  of  yore 
own  field  and  garden." 

"I  jest  thought  I'd  drop  in." 

"Wall,  it's  precious  kind  of  you,  I'm  shore.  I  was  a-feelin'  kind  o' 
lonesome.     The  children  go  to  bed  with  the  chickens." 

"I  jest  thought  I'd  drop  in." 

"Wall,  it  does  remind  me  of  old  times  to  see  you  jest  droppin'  in, 
informal  like,  this  way.     My,  how  time  does  fly!" 

"Widder,  I've  been  thinkin'  a  good  deal  lately;  I've  been  greatly 
prospered  in  my  day  ;*  in  fact,  my  cup  runneth  over." 

"You  have  been  prospered,  Nathan." 

"Seems  's  ef — seems  's  ef  I  ought  to  sheer  it  with  somebody, 
don't  it?" 

"Wall,  Nathan,  I  don't  know  nobody  that's  more  generous  in  givin' 
to  the  pore  than  you  air." 

"I  don't  mean  in  jest  exactly  that  way.    I  mean,  widder — you're  the 


HUMOROUS  125 

morti — I  mean  the  salvation  of  my  soul.  Could  yon — would  you — er 
do  you  think  you'd  keer  to.  sheer  my  blessin's  with  me  an'  add  another 
one  to  'em?" 

The  Widow  Young  looked  at  him  in  astonishment;  then  the  tears 
filled  her  eyes  as  she  asked,  "Nathan,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"I  wouldn't  a-spent  so  much  trouble  on  a  joke,  widder." 

"No,  it  don't  seem  that  you  would,  Nathan.  Well,  it's  mighty  sud- 
den, mighty  sudden,  but  I  can't  say  no." 

"Fur  these  an'  many  other  blessin's  make  us  truly  thankful,  O  Lord," 
said  Nathan  devoutly.  And  he  sat  another  hour  with  the  widow  mak- 
ing plans  for  the  early  marriage,  on  which  he  insisted. 

The  widow  had  been  settled  in  Nathan's  "home  over  a  month  before 
he  had  ever  thought  of  telling  her  of  the  real  motive  of  his  marriage, 
and  every  day  from  the  time  it  occurred  to  him  it  grew  harder  for  him 
to  do  it. 

One  night  when  he  had  been  particularly  troubled  he  sought  his 
friend  and  counselor  with  a  clouded  brow.  They  sat  together  in  their 
accustomed  place  on  the  fence. 

"I'm  bothered,  Silas." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Why,  there's  several  things.  First  off,  I  ain't  never  told  the  widder 
that  she  was  a  mortification,  an'  next  s*he  ain't.  I  look  around  at  that 
old  house  o'  mine  that  ain't  been  a  home  since  mother  used  to  scour 
the  hearth,  an'  it  makes  me  feel  like  singin'  fer  joy.  An'  I  hear  them 
children  playin'  round  me — they're  the  beatenest  children;  that  young- 
est one  called  me  daddy  yistiddy — well,  I  see  'em  playin'  round  and 
my  eyes  air  opened,  an'  I  see  that  the  widder's  jest  another  blessin' 
added  to  the  rest.  It  looks  to  me  like  I  had  tried  to  beat  the 
Almighty." 

"Wall,  now,  Nathan,  I  don't  know  that  you've"  got  any  cause  to  feel 
bothered.  You've  done  yore  duty.  If  you've  tried  to  mortify  yore 
flesh  an'  it  refused  to  mortify,  why,  that's  all  you  could  do,  an'  I 
believe  the  Lord'll  take  the  will  fer  the  deed  an'  credit  you  accordin'ly." 

"Mebbe  so,  Silas,  mebbe  so." — Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New 
York,  and  used  by  arrangement. 

DOING  A  WOMAN'S  WORK 

By  McKillif-Stanwood 

"Breakfast  ready  yet?"  asked  Jack  Telfer,  as  he  set  two  pails  of 
foaming  milk  on  the  bench  and  turned  to  wash  his  hands. 


126  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Almost,"  replied  his  wife.  "But,  say,  Jack,  won't  you  fix  the  calf 
pen  while  you're  waiting?  It  won't  take  but  a  minute.  The  calves 
got  out  twice  yesterday  and  tramped  all  over  the  flower  beds  and  gar- 
den. I  had  an  awful  time  getting  them  in.  I  tried  to  fix  it,  but  I 
don't  think  I  did  a  good  job." 

"I  can't  stop  now.  I  guess  it's  all  right.  If  they  get  out,  why 
chase  them  in;  you  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  I'll  fix  it  up  right 
when  I  get  time.  I  want  my  breakfast  now.  I  can't  fool  around  here 
till  noon.     I've  got  to  cultivate  the  peaches  to-day." 

"I've  nothing  else  to  do,"  repeated  his  wife,  as  she  dished  up  the 
tempting  breakfast.  "Well,  I  like  that,  Jack  Telfer.  I  wish  to  good- 
ness I  hadn't  any  more  to  do  than  you  have." 

"Why,  what  under  the  sun  have  you  to  do?  You  have  only  Toodles 
and  me  to  look  after  and  this  little  house  to  keep.  I  could  do  all  the 
work  you  do  with  one  hand  tied  behind  me  and  then  find  time  to 
throw  at  the  birds.  You  see,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  for  I 
can  cook  and  do  housework  as  well  as  any  woman." 

"You've  never  displayed  any  talent  in  that  direction  since  I've  known 
you.  It's  like  pulling  teeth  to  get  you  to  do  a  chore  around  the  house. 
Not  that  I  want  a  man  to  do  housework,  for  I  don't ;  that's  a  woman's 
business.  But  when  she  has  every  step  to  take  and  a  dozen  things  to 
do  at  once,  a  little  help  occasionally  comes  mighty  handy." 

"Well,  the  reason  I  don't  help  around  here  is  because  there  isn't 
much  to  do.  The  work  you  have  is  a  snap,  my  girl,  and  a  mighty 
soft  one,  too.  Why,  my  mother  had  nine  children  and  did  all  her  own 
work  and  cooked  for  harvest  hands  and  threshers  and  used  to  help 
the  neighbors  out  if  they  got  in  a  pinch." 

"Well,  my  dear  husband,  I  do  not  doubt  but  your  mother  was  a  very 
smart  woman.  She  must  have  been  to  have  raised  so  promising  a  son. 
But  women  are  not  all  alike,  my  dear." 

"Now,  your  work  is  a  sort  of  paper-flower  work  compared  with 
what  I  have  to  do.  It  would  be  a  picnic  for  me  to  stay  in  the  house, 
wash  dishes,  play  with  the  baby  and  do  such  things." 

"All  right,  suppose  you  have  a  picnic  to-day.  I  can  drive  the  culti- 
vator just  as  well  as  you  and  you  can  cook  and  keep  house  a  great  deal 
better  than  I ;  at  least  you  think  you  can.  I'll  hitch  up  and  cultivate 
the  peaches  and  you  can  tie  one  hand  behind'  you  and  do  the  work 
to-day  and  see  how  much  time  you  have  to  throw  at  the  birds.  What 
do  you  say?" 

"Say,"  laughed  Mr.  Telfer  as  he  pushed  back  from  the  table.  "Why, 
I  say  I'm  willing,  but  if  you  don't  get  enough  riding  in  the  hot  sun — " 


HUMOROUS  127 

"The  hot  sun,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "is  no  worse  than  the  hot  stove 
I  cook  over.     Will  you  do  it?" 

"You  bet  I'll  do  it,  but  you  must  tell  me  what's  to  be  done  so  you 
can't  throw  it  up  to  me  for  ever  after  that  the  reason  I  got  through 
so  soon  was  because  I  didn't  do  half  the  work." 

"First,"  said  Mrs.  Telfer,  "there's  the  milk  to  skim  and  the  calves  to 
feed  and  the  churning  to  do.  Skim  the  milk  on  the  north  shelf  in 
the  cellar ;  the  dishes  to  wash,  and  don't  forget  to  scald  the  churn  and 
the  milk  things.  Then  you  can  iron;  the  clothes  are  all  dampened 
down  in  the  basket.  You  need  not  iron  any  but  the  plain  things,  I'll 
do  the  others.  Pit  the  cherries  I  picked  last  night  and  make  a  pie  for 
dinner.  And,  oh,  yes,  you  will  -have  to  kill  a  chicken  and  dress  it,  for 
you  know  you  said  last  night  you  wanted  chicken  and  dumplings  for 
dinner  to-day,  and  now  is  your  chance. 

"Stew  some  prunes  for  supper  to-night,  make  the  bed,  sweep  and 
dust  and  get  the  vegetables  ready  for  dinner.  Oh,  I  guess  you  know 
about  what  there  is  to  do.  I  must  be  off  now,  for  it  is  nearly  6 
o'clock."    And  she  was  gone. 

"Well,  it's  early  yet;  guess  I'll  smoke  and  read  the  Rural  World 
awhile.  There's  an  article  on  hogs  I  wanted  to  read;  it  seems  nice  to 
have  time  to  do  what  you  please." 

After  he  had  read  a  long  time  he  at  last  knocked  the  ashes  into  his 
hand  and  stretched  lazily. 

He  went  down  celler  and  skimmed  the  milk,  then  he  fed  the  calves, 
laughed  at  the  way  his  wife  had  tried  to  fix  the  calf  pen,  went  in  and 
took  off  the  table  cloth  and  piled  the  dishes  and  empty  milk  things  on 
the  table. 

"Guess  I'll  wash  up  before  I  churn.  No,  I  won't,  either.  I'll  churn 
first;  then  I'll  clean  up  all  at  once.  Oh,  I've  got  a  head  on  me.  I 
ought  to  have  been  a  woman." 

He  brought  from  the  cellar  a  large  new  pan  of  thick  cream  and  set 
it  on  the  table,  then  he  went  to  scald  the  churn,  but  the  fire  was  out 
and  the  dish  water  Mrs.  Telfer  had  put  on  before  breakfast  was 
nearly  cold. 

"Blame  it  all,  I've  got  to  go  to  the  barn  for  peach  pits;  not  one  in 
the  basket.  But  I'll  kill  the  chicken  while  I'm  out  there  and  save  an 
extra  trip.  If  Jennie  would  only  use  some  management  about  her  work 
she'd  have  plenty  of  time." 

The  large  pit  basket  was  soon  filled,  but  the  chicken  was  another 
proposition.  Every  time  he  selected  one  to  catch  it  seemed  to  know 
it  was  a  marked  bird  and  would  shy  off  to  the  edge  of  the  flock.     At 


128  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

last  he  had  to  run  one  down,  and  he  wrung  its  neck  with  a  great  deal 
of  satisfaction.    As  he  entered  the  house  the  clock  struck  nine. 

"Wheu!  Where  has  the  morning  gone?  I  must  get  a  move  on  me. 
Guess  I'll  make  the  pie  first  so  it  can  bake  while  the  water  is  heating." 

He  prepared  the  cherries.  Then  he  made  the  pie;  made  it  as  well 
as  a  woman  could.  He  had  pushed  the  dishes  back  on  the  cluttered 
table  to  make  room  for  his  bread-board,  and  just  as  he  had  the  crust 
nicely  stamped  down  around  the  edge  of  his  pie,  with  a  fork,  a  tousled 
head*  of  yellow  curls  appeared  in  the  doorway,  one  chubby  hand  hold- 
ing up  a  long,  white  nighty,  the  other  rubbing  a  sleepy  eye. 

There  was  surprise  on  the  baby  face  at  the  sight  of  his  father. 
Papa  meant  fun  for  Toodles,  and,  running  to  him,  he  put  up  his  little 
arms,  saying,  "Papa,  high  me;  high  Toodles,  papa;  high  Toodles." 
And  his  father,  dusting  the  flour  from  his  hands,  tossed  the  baby  to 
the  ceiling  again  and  again  while  the  little  fellow  screamed  with  delight. 

In  the  midst  of  this  jolly  frolic  the  clock  announced  that  it  was  the 
tenth  hour  of  the  day. 

"Hear  that,  young  man  ?"  said  the  father.  "That  means  that  we  must 
cut  out  this  racket  and  get  down  to  business.  Your  paternal  ancestor  is 
chief  cook  and  general  manager  to-day  and  has  several  little  chores  to 
do  yet.  We  will  get  Toodles'  breakfast  first,  then  wash  and  dress  him 
afterwards  so  that  he  won't  get  mussed  up  when  he  eats. 

"Mamma  don't  do  that  way,  but  we  can  give  mamma  a  few  pointers 
on  keeping  a  baby  clean,  can't  we,  Toodles  ?" 

And,  putting  the  child  in  kis  high-chair,  Mr.  Telfer  pinned  a  tea 
towel  around  the  little  neck  for  a  bib,  took  a  bowl  and  went  to  the 
cellar  for  some  new  milk. 

While  Toodles  was  eating  breakfast  his  father  washed  the  prunes 
and  put  them  on  to  stew,  set  the  pie  in  the  oven  and  started  to  build 
the  fire,  but  he  was  interrupted  by  an  emphatic  voice  saying,  "Papa, 
down;  papa,  down." 

"All  right,  young  man,  I'll  attend  to  your  case  directly,"  said  Jack, 
touching  a  match  to  the  kindling.  "Guess  I'll  wash  and  dress  you  and 
have  you  off  my  hands." 

And,  taking  a  wash-pan  of  tepid  water,  with  soap,  comb,  rag,  towel 
and  Toodles,  he  went  into  the  sitting-room  where  it  was  cool  and 
pleasant.  The  baby's  clean  clothes  were  lying  upon  a  chair,  where  his 
mamma  had  placed  them  the  night  before.  Then  what  a  time  they  had. 
Toodles  would  catch  the  wash  rag  in  his  teeth  and  papa  would  shake 
it  and  growl  till  the  little  mouth  would  have  to  let  loose  to  scream  with 
the  agonizing  fun. 


HUMOROUS  129 

Then  came  fhe  tangled  curls,  and  it  took  a  wonderful  story  about  a 
doggie  that  would  say  "Bow,  wow,"  and  a  little  horsie  that  Toodles 
could  ride  and  a  chicky  that  went  "Peep,  peep,  peep,"  and  several  other 
mental  concoctions  to  keep  the  baby  quiet  until  the  ringlets  were  in 
order. 

When  the  clean  coaties  were  on  and  two  little  arms  hugged  papa 
tight,  Jack  Telfer  thought,  "Jennie  calls  this  work/' 

The  clock  pounded  out  eleven  strokes. 

"Blast  that  clock;  what's  got  into  it,"  thought  the  man,  putting  the 
child  down  and  hurrying  to  the  kitchen.  "I've  been  "busy  every  minute 
this  morning,  and  here  it  is  11  o'clock  and  not  a  thing  done  yet." 

He  found  the  fire  had  burned  out;  he  had  forgotten  to  put 
the  peach  pits  on  the  kindling  when  he  had  stopped  to  fuss  with 
Toodles. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  make  it  all  right  by  noon,"  he  soliloquized.  "This 
is  a  hurry-up  order,  but  I'll  be  on  time  or  eat  my  hat." 

He  looked  at  his  pie;  it  was  nearly  half  baked.  He  built  a  roaring 
fire,  packed  the  stove  with  peach  pits,  pulled  the  prunes  to  the  front 
where  they  would  cook  quicker,  and  was  debating  in  his  mind  which 
he  should  scald  first,  the  churn  or  the  chicken,  when  something  rushed 
by  the  door. 

"Drat  those  calves ;  they're  out  again." 

Snatching  his  hat,  he  hurried  after  them.  It  was  a  merry  chase  for 
the  calves  if  not  for  Mr.  Telfer.  They  were  willing  to  go  in  any 
direction  but  the  right  one,  and  by  the  time  he  got  them  corralled  Jack 
was  hot,  tired  and  cross. 

When  Toodles  was  left  alone  he  started  out  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 
The  first  objects  of  interest  were  the  dead  chicken  and  the  peach-pit 
basket,  but  his  attention  was  soon  detracted  from  these  by  the  bright 
pan  that  held  the  cream;  it  had  been  pushed  to  the  edge  of  the  table. 
As  Toodles  approached  it  he  saw  the  reflection  of  a  chubby  baby  face 
on  the  outside. 

"Baby,"  said  Toodles.  He  smiled  and  the  pan  baby  smiled,  and  he 
concluded  that  the  pan  must  be  full  of  pretty,  smiling  babies,  and  he 
wanted  them  to  play  with.  He  could  just  get  his  little  fingers  over  the 
edge  of  the  pan.  He  pulled  and  tugged  with  all  hjs  might  to  get  the 
pan  baby  down. 

He  succeeded,  for  the  pan  toppled  over  and  deluged  the  immaculate 
Toodles  with  thick,  yellow  cream.  His  pretty  curls  were  filled  with 
chunks  of  oily  coagulation,  and  cream  ran  in  rivulets  down  his  little 
back  and  bosom. 


130  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

He  seated  himself  in  the  middle  of  it  and  paddled  and  spattered  in 
great  glee. 

The  calf  pen  took  longer  to  fix  than  Jack  had  expected,  and  as  he 
neared  the  house  he  heard  the  clock  striking  twelve,  and,  looking  field- 
ward,  he  saw  his  wife  coming  to  dinner. 

"Jumping  Jupiter  1  what  will  she  say?"  was  his  mental  comment. 
"But  she  will  soon  fix  things,  I'll  bet." 

As  he  entered  the  kitchen  what' a  sight  met  his  gaze.  The  room  was 
dark  with  smoke  from  burned  prunes,  the  table  piled  full  of  unwashed 
pans  and  dishes.  The  cream.  Heavens,  the  cream  I  The  dead  chicken 
lay  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  the  pit-basket  was  upset,  as  Toodles 
had  left  it  for  the  pan  baby.     The  open-mouthed  churn  stared  at  him. 

Mr.  Telfer  opened  the  oven  door ;  his  pie  was  a  black  mass. 

"I  can  see  now  why  women  sit  down  and  cry  sometimes.  I'm 
blessed  if  I  don't  feel  like  it  myself,"  he  said. 

Toodles,  drenched  but  happy,  called  from  the  middle  of  his  cream 
puddle,  "High  me,  papa;  high  me." 

Mrs.  Telfer  called  out  as  she  passed  the  house:  "Hello  1  Dinner 
ready?    I'm  awful  hungry."    But  her  husband  was  not  visible. 

She  had  enjoyed  her  morning's  work  and  was  in  excellent  spirits. 
She  watered  and  fed  the  team,  then-  started  for  the  house.  The  nov- 
elty of  the  situation  amused  her.  She  expected  Jack  would  have  some 
surprise  ready,  some  extra  dish  for  dinner,  the  table  decorated  with 
flowers  or,  perhaps,  be  tricked  out  in  one  of  her  white  aprons  with 
his  hair  curled  and  a  pink  ribbon  around  his  neck  to  show  how  a  wife 
should  greet  her  husband. 

He  was  such  a  wag  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  *he  might  do.  As 
she  entered  the  house  she  stood  dumb  with  amazement.  Her  eyes  took 
in  the  situation.  The  breakfast  dishes,  the  burned  pie,  the  creamy 
Toodles,  the  dead  chicken,  the  littered  sitting-room  with  the  remains 
of  Toodles'  toilet  and  the  distracted-looking  man. 

"How  soon  will  dinner  be  ready?"  she  asked.  But  her  husband  did 
not  answer ;  he  was  busy  picking  up  peach  pits.  "I've  got  to  get  back 
to  work  as  soon  as  I  can,"  she  continued. 

Crossing  the  room,  she  took  up  a  paper  and  went  outside  and  sat 
down  in  the  shade  to  read. 

Toodles,  greasy  and  dripping,  trotted  after. 

"Oh,  baby,  go  to  papa  and  get  cleaned  up.  Go  tell  papa  to  clean 
baby  up,  darling,"  said  his  mother.  And  the  little  fellow  hurried  into 
the  house,  saying:     "Keen  baby  up,  papa;  keen  baby  up." 

Poor  Jack,  he  had  lost  out.    He  was  hopelessly  balled  up.    He  was 


HUMOROUS  131 

mad.  He  had  felt  somehow  that  his  troubles  were  over  when  he  saw 
his  wife  coming,  but  when  she  took  the  paper  and  sat  down  to  read, 
leaving  him  in  that  awful  muss,  the  iron  entered  his  soul. 

Yet  he  knew  that  was  exactly  the  way  he  did,  and  only  yesterday 
when  she  asked  him  to  get  a  pitcher  of  fresh  water  for  dinner  he 
had  said: 

"It's  a  pity  a  man  can't  get  a  moment  to  rest  without  having  to 
chore  around  the  house." 

"Keen  baby  up,  papa;  keen  baby  up!"  reiterated  Toodles.  Jack 
looked  down  at  the  greasy,  smeary  child  with  its  cream-matted  curls 
and  capitulated. 

"Say,  Jennie,"  he  called,  "I'll  give  up.  I  know  when  I'm  worsted. 
It's  my  treat.  If  you'll  come  in  here  and  help  me  out  of  this  mix-up 
you  can  name  your  own  price  and  I'll  pay  it.  I've  worked  all  the 
morning  and  haven't  done  a  blamed  thing  but  get  all  balled  up.  I 
never  would  have  believed  a  woman  had  so  much  to  do  if  I  'hadn't  tried 
it.     I  am  dead  sore  a't  the  whole  deal." 

"Why,  Jack,"  laughed  his  wife,  as  she  came  to  his  assistance,  "you 
don't  seem  to  like  paper-flower  work.  I  guess  you  forgot  to  tie  one 
hand  behind  you  and  so  used  both  to  throw  time  at  the  birds." 

"Now  see  here,  Jennie,  don't  strike  a  man  when  he's  down.  I'll 
admit  that  I'm  not  nearly  so  smart  as  I  thought  I  was  this  morning, 
but  how  things  ever  got  in  this  shape  I  can't  tell,"  said  Jack  with  a 
grim  smile. 

Together  they  soon  brought  order  out  of  chaos,  and  as  they  sat 
eating  their  picked-up  dinner  Jack  said: 

"If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  Jennie,  I'll  finish  the  orchard  this 
afternoon." — The  Los  Angeles  Times. 

A  BAD  NIGHT 
By  J.  Ross  Browne 

I  gradually  dropped  off  into  a  doze,  a  mere  doze,  for  I  scorn  the 
charge  of  having  slept  a  wink  that  night.  The  grating  of  the  grind- 
stones, the  everlasting  clatter  of  tongues,  the  dust,  the  chaff,  smoke,  and 
fleas,  to  say  nothing  of  the  roar  of  the  water  down  below,  were  enough 
to  banish  all  hope  of  sleep ;  I  merely  closed  my  eyes  to  try  how  ridicu- 
lous it  would  feel.  How  long  they  remained  closed  I  scarcely  know; 
it  was  not  long,  however,  for  I  soon  heard  a  heavy  breathing  close  by 
my  head,  and  felt  the  warm  breath  of  some  monster  on  my  face.     I 


132  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

knew  it  to  be  no  Arab ;  it  blew  and  snuffed  altogether  unlike  anything 
of  the  human  kind.  Thinking  it  might  be  all  fancy,  I  cautiously  put 
out  my  hand  in  the  dark  and  began  to  feel  around  me.  For  some 
moments  I  could  discover  nothing,  but  in  waving  my  hand  around  I 
at  length  touched  something — something  that  sent  the  blood  flying 
back  to  my  heart  a  good  deal  quicker  than  it  ever  flew  before.  To  tell 
the  honesv  truth,  I  never  was  so  startled  in  all  the  previous  adventures 
of  my  life.  The  substance  that  I  put  my  hand  on  was  bare  and  warm; 
it  was  wet  also  and  slimy,  and  had  large  nostrils  which  seemed  to  be 
in  the  act  of  smelling  me,  previous  to  the  act  of  mastication.  With  the 
quickness  of  lightning  I  jerked  up  my  hand,  and  felt  it  glide  along  a 
skin  covered  with  long  rough  hair;  the  next  instant  my  ears  were 
stunned  by  the  most  dreadful  noises,  which  resembled,  as  I  thought  in 
the  horror  of  the  moment,  the  roaring  of  a  full-grown  lion.  But  it 
was  not  the  roaring  of  a  lion;  it  was  only  the  braying  of  an  ass. — 
From  The  Mill  oj  Mala  ha. 

AN  UNTHANKFUL  ORPHAN 
By  Kate  Langley  Bosher 

My  name  is  Mary  Cary.  I  live  in  the  Yorkburg  Female  Orphan 
Asylum.  You  may  think  nothing  happens  in  an  Orphan  Asylum.  It 
does.  The  orphans  are  sure  enough  children,  and  real,  much  like  the 
kind  that  have  Mothers  and  Fathers;  but  though  they  don't  give  par- 
ties or  wear  truly  Paris  clothes,  things  happen. 

To-day  I  was  kept  in.  Yesterday,  too.  I  don't  mind,  for  I  would 
rather  watch  the  lightning  up  here  than  be  down  in  the  basement  with 
the  others.  There  are  days  when  I  love  thunder  and  lightning.  I 
can't  flash  and  crash,  being  just  Mary  Cary;  but  I'd  like  to,  and  when 
it  is  done  for  me  it  is  a  relief  to  my  feelings. 

The  reason  I  was  kept  in  was  this :  Yesterday  Mr.  Gaffney,  the  one 
with  a  sunk  eye  and'  cold  in  his  head  perpetual,  came  to  talk  to  us  for 
the  benefit  of  our  characters.  He  thinks  it's  his  duty,  and,  just  nat- 
urally loving  to  talk,  he  wears  us  out  once  a  week  anyhow.  Yester- 
day, not  agreeing  with  what  he  said,  I  wouldn't  pretend  I  did,  and  I 
was  punished  prompt,  of  course. 

I  don't  care  for  duty-doers,  and  I  tried  not  to  listen  to  him;  but 
tiresome  talk  is  hard  not  to  hear — it  makes  you  so  mad.  Hear  him 
I  did,  and  when,  after  he  had  ambled  on  until  I  thought  he  really  was 
castor-oil  and  I  had  swallowed  him,  he  blew  his  nose  and  said : 


HUMOROUS  133 

"You  have  much,  my  children,  to  be  thankful  for,  and  for  every- 
thing you  should  be  thankful.  Are  you?  If '  so,  stand  up.  Rise,  and 
stand  upon  your  feet." 

I  didn't  rise.  All  the  others  did — stood  on  their  feet,  just  like  he 
asked.  None  tried  their  heads.  I  was  the  only  one  that  sat,  and  when 
his  good  eye  stared  at  me  in  such  astonishment,  I  laughed  out  loud. 
I  couldn't  help  it,  I  truly  couldn't. 

I'm  not  thankful  for  everything,  and  that's  why  I  didn't  stand  up. 
Can  you  be  thankful  for  toothache,  or  stomachache,  or  any  kind  of 
ache?    You  cannot.    And  not  meant  to  be,  either. 

The  room  got  awful  still,  and  then  presently  he  said : 

"Mary  Cary" — his  voice  was  worse  than  his  eye — "Mary  Cary,  do 
you  mean  to  say  you  have  not  a  thankful  heart?"  And  he  pointed  his 
finger  at'me  like  I  was  the  Jezebel  lady  come  to  life. 

I  didn't  answer,  thinking  it  safer,  and  he  asked  again: 

"Do  I  understand,  Mary  Cary" — and  by  this  time  he  was  real  red- 
in-the-face  mad — "do  I  understand  you  are  not  thankful  for  all  that 
comes  to  you?    Do  I  understand  aright?" 

"Yes,  sir,  you  understand  right,"  I  said,  getting  up  this  time.  "I  am 
not  thankful  for  everything  in  »my  life.  I'd  be  much  thankfuller  to 
have  a  Mother  and  Father  on  earth  than  to  have  them  in  heaven. 
And  there  are  a  great  many  other  things  I  would  like  different."  And 
down  I  sat,  and  was  kept  in  for  telling  the  truth. 

Miss  Bray  says  it  was  for  impertinence  (Miss  Bray  is  the  Head 
Chief  of  this  Institution),  but  I  didn't  mean  to  be  impertinent  I  truly 
didn't.  Speaking  facts  is  apt  to  make  trouble,  though — also  writing 
them.  To-day  Miss  Bray  kept  me  in  for  putting  something  on  the 
blackboard  I  forgot  to  rub  out.  I  wrote  it  just  for  my  own  relief,  not 
thinking  about  anybody  else  seeing  it.    What  I  wrote  was  this: 

"Some  people  are  crazy  all  the  time ; 
All  people  are  crazy  sometimes." 

That's  why  I'm  up  in  the  punishment-room  to-day,  and  it  only  proves 
that  what  I  wrote  is  right.  It's  crazy  to  let  people  know  you  know 
how  queer  they  are.  Miss  Bray  takes  personal  everything  I  do,  and 
when  she  saw  that  blackboard,  up-stairs  she  ordered  me  at  once.  She 
loves  to  punish  me,  and  it's  a  pleasure  I  give  her  often. 

She  thinks  she  could  run  this  earth  better  than  it's  being  done,  and 
she  walks  around  like  she  is  the  Superintendent  of  most  of  it. 

But  she's  taught  me  a  good  deal  about  Human  Nature,  Miss  Bray 
has.    About  the  side  I  didn't  know.    I  think  I  will  make  a  special  study 


134  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

of  Human  Nature.  I  thought  once  I'd  take  up  Botany  in  particular, 
as  I  love  flowers;  or  Astronomy,  so  as  to  find  out  all  about  those 
million  worlds  in  the  sky,  so  superior  to  earth,  and  so  much  larger ; 
but  I  think,  now,  I'll  settle  on  Human  Nature.  Nobody  ever  knows 
what  it  is  going  to  do,  which  makes  it  full  of  surprises,  but  there's  a 
lot  that's  real  interesting  about  it.  I  like  it.  As  for  its  Bray  side, 
I'll  try  not  to  think  about  it ;  but  if  there  are  puddles,  I  guess  it's  well 
to  know  where,  so  as  not  to  step  in  them.  I  wish  we  didn't  have  to 
know  about  puddles  and  things!  I'd  so  much  rather  know  little  and 
be  happy  than  find  out  the  miserable  much  some  people  do.  God  is 
going  to  have  a  hard  time  with  Miss  Bray.  She's  right  old  to  change, 
and  she's  set  in  her  ways — bad  ways. 

Did  you  know  I  wrote  poetry?  Umhm.  I  do.  Last  week  I  wrote 
one.    This  is  it: 

"In  the  winter,  by  the  fireside,  when  the  snow  falls  soft  and  white, 
I  am  waiting,  hoping,  longing,  but  for  what  I  don't  know  quite. 
And  when  summer's  sunshine  shimmers,  and  the  birds  sing  clear  and 

sweet, 
I  am  waiting,  always  waiting,  for  the  joy  I  hope  to  meet. 

"It  will  be,  I  think,  my  husband,  and  the  home  he'll  make  for  me ; 
But  of  his  coming  or  home-making,  I  as  yet  no  signs  do  see. 
But  I  still  shall  keep  on  waiting,  for  I  know  it's  true  as  fate, 
When  you  really,  truly  hustle,  things  will  come  if  just  you'll  wait." 

Miss  Bray  was  to  get  married.  When  I  grow  up  I  am  going  to  marry 
a  million-dollar  man,  so  I  can  travel  around  the  world  and  have  a 
house  in  Paris  with  twenty  bathrooms  in  it.  And  I'm  going  to  have 
horses  and  automobiles  and  a  private  car  and  balloons,  if  they  are 
working  all  right  by  that  time.  I  hope  they  will  be,  for  I  want  some- 
thing in  which  I  can  soar  up  and  sit  and  look  down  on  other  people. 

All  my  life  people  have  looked  down  on  me,  passing  me  by  like  I 
was  a  Juny  bug  or  a  caterpillar,  and  I  don't  wonder.  I'm  merely  Mary 
Cary  with  fifty-eight  more  just  like  me.  Blue  calico,  white  dots  for 
winter,  white  calico,  blue  dots  for  summer.  Black  sailor  hats  and 
white  sailor  hats  with  blue  capes  for  cold  weather,  and  no  fire  to 
dress  by,  and  freezing  fingers  when  it's  cold,  and  no  ice-water  when 
it's  hot.  ^ 

Yes,  I  am  going  to  marry  a  rich  man.  I  will  try  to  love  him,  but  if 
I  can't  I  will  be  polite  to  him  and  travel  alone  as  much  as  possible. 
But  I  am  going  to  be  rich  some  day,  I  am.    And  when  I  come  back 


HUMOROUS  135 

to  Yorkburg  eyes  will  bulge,  for  the  clothes  I  am  going  to  wear  will 
make  mouths  water,  they're  going  to  be  so  grand. 

It  seems  like  every  time  Miss  Katherine  goes  away  from  the  'Sylum 
I'd  be  bad.  Last  time  she  hadn't  been  gone  two  days  till  I'd  invented 
more  trouble.  It  was  this  way :  In  the  summer  we  have  much  more 
time  than  in  the  winter,  and  the  children  kept  coming  to  me  asking 
me  to  make  up  something,  and  all  of  a  sudden  a  play  came  in  my 
mind.  I  just  love  acting.  The  play  was  to  be  the  marriage  of  Dr. 
Rudd  and  Miss  Bray. 

You  see,  Miss  Bray  is  dead  in  love  with  Dr.  Rudd — really  addled 
about  him.  And  whenever  he  comes  to  see  any  of  the  children  who 
are  sick  she  is  so  solitious  and  sweet  and  smiley  that  we  call  her,  to 
ourselves,  Ipecac  Mollie.  Other  days,  plain  Mollie  Cottontail.  It 
seemed  to  me  if  we  could  just  think  him  into  marrying  her,  it  would 
be  the  best  work  we'd  ever  done,  and  I  thought  it  was  worth  trying. 

They  say  if  you  just  think  and  think  and  think  about  a  thing  you 
can  make  somebody  else  think  about  it,  too.  And  not  liking  Dr.  Rudd, 
we  didn't  mind  thinking  her  on  him,  and  so  we  began.  Every  day 
we'd  meet  for  an  hour  and  think  together,  and  each  one  promised  to 
think  single,  and  in  between  times  we  got  ready. 

Becky  Drake  says  love  goes  hard  late  in  life,  and  sometimes  touches 
the  brain.     Maybe  that  accounts  for  Miss  Bray. 

She  is  fifty-three  years  old,  and  all  frazzled  out  and  done  up  with 
adjuncts.  But  Dr.  Rudd,  being  a  man  with  not  even  usual  sense,  and 
awful  conceited,  don't  see  what  we  see,  and  swallows  easy.  Men  are 
funny — funny  as  some  women. 

I  don't  think  he's  ever  thought  of  courting  Miss  Bray.  But  she's 
thought  of  it,  and  for  once  we  tried  to  help  her,  and  the  play  was  a 
corker;  it  certainly  was.  We  chose  Friday  night  because  Miss  Jones 
always  takes  tea  with  her  aunt  that  night,  and  Miss  Bray  goes  to 
choir  practicing.  I  wish  everybody  could  hear  her  sing!  Gabriel 
ought  to  engage  her  to  wake  the  dead — only  they'd  want  to  die  again. 

Dr.  Rudd  is  in  the  choir,  and  she  just  lives  on  having  Friday  nights 
to  look  forward  to. 

The  ceremony  took  place  in  the  basement-room  where  we  play  in 
bad  weather.  It's  across  from  the  dining-room,  the  kitchen  being  be- 
tween, and  it's  a  right  nice  place  to  march  in,  being  long  and  narrow. 

I  was  the  preacher,  and  Prudence  Arch  and  Nita  Polley,  Emma  Clark 
and  Margaret  Witherspoon  were  the  bridesmaids. 

Lizzie  Wyatt  was  the  bride,  and  Katie  Freeman,  who  is  the  tallest 
girl  in  the  house,  though  only  fourteen,  was  the  groom. 


136  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Katie  is  so  thin  she  would  do  as  well  for  one  thing  in  this  life  as 
another,  so  we  made  her  Dr.  Rudd. 

We  didn't  have  but  two  men.  Miss  Webb  says  they're  really  not 
necessary  at  weddings,  except  the  groom  and  minister.  Nobody  notices 
them,  and,  besides,  we  couldn't  get  the  pants. 

I  was  an  Episcopal  minister,  so  I  wouldn't  need  any. 

If  anybody  thinks  that  wedding  was  slumpy,  they  think  wrong.  It 
was  thrilly.  When  the  bride  and  groom  and  the  bridesmaids  came  in, 
all  the  girls  were  standing  in  rows  on  either  side  of  the  walls,  making 
an  aisle  in  between,  and  they  sang  a  wedding-song  I  had  invented 
from  my  heart. 

It  was  to  the  Lohengrin  tune,  which  is  a  little  wobbly  for  words, 
but  they  got  them  in  all  right,  keeping  time  with  their  hands.  These 
are  the  words: 

Here  comes  the  bride, 

God  save  the  groom  1 

And  please  don't  let  any  chil-i-il-dren  come, 

For  they  don't  know 

How  children  feel, 

Nor  do  they  know  how  with  children  to  deal. 

She's  still  an  old  maid, 

Though  she  would  not  have  been 

Could  she  have  mar-ri-ed  any  kind  of  man. 

But  she  could  not. 

So  to  the  Humane 

She  came,  and  caus-ed  a  good  deal  of  pain. 

But  now  she's  here 

To  be  married,  and  go 

Away  with  her  red-headed,  red-bearded  beau. 

Have  mercy,  Lord, 

And  help  him  to  bear 

What  we've  been  doing  this  many  a  year ! 

And  such  singing!  We'd  been  practicing  in  the  back  part  of  the  yard, 
and  humming  in  bed,  so  as  to  get  the  words  into  the  tune;  but  we 
hadn't  let  out  until  that  night.    That  night  we  let  go. 

There's  nothing  like  singing  from  your  heart,  and,  though  I  was  the 
minister  and  stood  on  a  box  which  was  shaky,  I  sang  too.     I  led. 

The  bride  didn't  think  it  was  modest  to  hold  up  her  head,  and  she 
was  the  only  silent  one.  But  the  bridegroom  and  bridesmaids  sang, 
and  it  sounded  like  the  revivals  at  the  Methodist  church.  It  was 
grand. 


HUMOROUS  137 

And  that  bride!  She  was  Miss  Bray.  A  graven  image  of  her 
couldn't  have  been  more  like  her. 

She  was  stuffed  in  the  right  places,  and  her  hair  was  frizzled  just 
like  Miss  Bray's.  Frizzled'  in  front,  and  slick  and  tight  in  the  back; 
and  her  face  was  a  purple  pink,  and  powdered  all  over,  with  a  piece 
of  dough  just  above  her  mouth  on  the  left  side  to  correspond  with 
Miss  Bray's  mole. 

And  she  held  herself  so  like  her,  shoulders  back,  and  making  that 
little  nervous  sniffle  with  her  nose,  like  Miss  Bray  makes  when  she's 
excited,  that  once  I  had  to  wink  at  her  to  stop. 

The  groom  didn't  look  like  Dr.  Rudd.  But  she  wore  men's  clothes, 
and  that's  the  only  way  you'd  know  some  men  were  men,  and  almost 
anything  will  do  for  a  groom.     Nobody  noticed  him. 

We  were  getting  on  just  grand,  and  I  was  marrying  away,  telling 
them  what  they  must  do  and  what  they  mustn't  do.  Particularly  that 
they  mustn't  get  mad  and  leave  each  other,  for  Yorkburg  was  very 
old-fashioned  and  didn't  like  changes,  and  would  rather  stick  to  its 
mistakes  than  go  back  on  its  word.    And  then  I  turned  to  the  bride. 

"Miss  Bray,"  I  said,  "have  you  told  this  man  you  are  marrying  that 
you  are  two-faced  and  underhand,  and  can't  be  trusted  to  tell  the 
truth?  Have  you  told  him  that  nobody  loves  you,  and  that  for  years 
you  have  tried  to  pass  for  a  lamb,  when  you  are  an  old  sheep?  And 
does  he  know  that  though  you're  a  good  manager  on  little  and  are 
not  lazy,  that  your  temper's  been  ruined  by  economizing,  and  that  at 
times,  if  you  were  dead,  there'd  be  no  place  for  you?  Peter  wouldn't 
pass  you,  and  the  devil  wouldn't  stand  you.  And  does  he  know  he's 
buying  a  pig  in  a  bag,  and  that  the  best  wedding  present  he  could 
give  you  would  be  a  set  of  new  teeth?  And  will  you  promise  to  stop 
pink  powder  and  clean  your  finger-nails  every  day?     And — " 

But  I  got  no  further,  for  something  made  me  look  up,  and  there, 
standing  in  the  door,  was  the  real  Miss  Bray. 

All  I  said  was — "Let  us  pray !" — Abridged  from  "Mary  Cary,"  copy- 
righted by  The  Century  Company,  New  York,  and  used  by  the  kind 
consent  of  author  and  publisher. 

A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  FOR  A  LADY 

By  Myra  Kelly 

It  was  the  week  before  Christmas,  and  the  First-Reader  Class  had, 
almost  to  a  man,  decided  on  the  gifts  to  be  lavished  Qt\  "Teacher." 


138  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  Morris  Mogilewsky,  whose  love  for  Teacher  was  far  greater  than 
the  combined  loves  of  all  the  other  children,  had  as  yet  no  present  to 
bestow.  The  knowledge  saddened  all  his  hours  and  was  the  more 
maddening  because  it  could  in  no  wise  be  shared  by  Teacher,  who 
noticed  his  altered  bearing  and  tried  with  all  sorts  of  artful  beguile- 
ments  to  make  him  happy  and  at  ease.  But  her  efforts  served  only 
to  increase  his  unhappiness  and  his  love.  And  he  loved  her  1  Oh,  how 
he  loved  her!  Since  first  his  dreading  eyes  had  clung  for  a  breath's 
space  to  her  "like  man's  shoes"  and  had  then  crept  timidly  up  to  her 
"light  face,"  she  had  been  mistress  of  his  heart  of  hearts.  That  was 
more  than  three  months  ago.    And  well  he  remembered  the  day ! 

His  mother  had  washed  him  horribly,  and  had  taken  him  into  the 
big,  red  schoolhouse,  so  familiar  from  the  outside,  but  so  full  of  un- 
known terrors  within. 

He  was  then  dragged  through  long  halls  and  up  tall  stairs  by  a 
large  boy,  who  spoke  to  him  disdainfully  as  "greenie,"  so  that  his 
spirit  was  quite  broken  and  his  nerves  were  all  unstrung  when  he 
was  pushed  into  a  room  full  of  bright  sunshine  and  of  children  who 
laughed  at  his  frightened  little  face.  The  sunshine  smote  his  timid 
eyes,  the  laughter  smote  his  timid  heart,  and  he  turned  to  flee.  But 
the  door  was  shut,  the  large  boy  gone,  and  despair  took  him  for  its 
own. 

Down  upon  the  floor  he  dropped,  and  wailed,  and  wept,  and  kicked. 
It  was  then  that  he  foeard,  for  the  first  time,  the  voice  which  now  he 
loved. 

"Why,  my  dear  little  chap,  you  mustn't  cry  like  that.  What's  the 
matter?" 

The  hand  was  gentle  and  the  question  kind,  and  these,  combined 
with  a  faint  perfume  suggestive  of  drug-stores  and  barber-shops — but 
nicer  than  either — made  him  uncover  his  hot  little  face.  Kneeling 
beside  him  was  a  lady,  and  he  forced  his  eyes  to  that  perilous  ascent; 
from  shoes  to  skirt,  from  skirt  to  jumper,  from  jumper  to  face,  they 
trailed  in  dread  uncertainty,  but  at  the  face  they  stopped.  They  had 
found — rest. 

Morris  allowed  himself  to  be  gathered  into  the  lady's  arms;  and 
held  upon  her  knee,  and  when  his  sobs  no  longer  rent  the  very  founda- 
tions of  his  pink  and  wide-spread  tie,  he  answered  her  question  in  a, 
voice  as  soft  as  his  eyes,  and  as  gently  sad. 

"I  ain't  so  big,  and  I  don't  know  where  is  my  mamma." 

Thereafter  he  had  been  the  first  to  arrive  every  morning,  and  the 


HUMOROUS  139 

last  to  leave  every  afternoon;  and  under  the  care  of  Teacher,  his 
liege  lady,  he  had  grown  in  wisdom  and  love  and  happiness.  But  the 
greatest  of  these  was  love.  And  now,  when  the  other  boys  and  girls 
were  planning  surprises  and  gifts  of  price  for  Teacher,  his  hands  were 
as  empty  as  his  heart  was  full.  Appeal  to  his  mother  met  with  denial 
prompt  and  energetic. 

"For  what  you  go  und  make,  over  Christmas,  presents?" 
"All  the  other   fellows  buys  her  presents,  und  I'm  loving  mit  her 
too ;   it's  polite  I  gives  her  presents   the  while   I'm  got  such  a  kind 
feeling  over  her,"  said  Morris  stoutly. 

"Well,  we  ain't  got  no  money  for  buy  nothings,"  said  Mrs. 
Mogilewsky  sadly.  "No  money,  und  your  papa,  he  has  all  times  a 
scare  he  shouldn't  to  get  no  more." 

So  Morris  was  helpless,  4iis  mother  poor,  and  Teacher  all  unknowing. 
And  now  the  great  day,  the  Friday  before  Christmas,  came,  and  the 
school  was,  for  the  first  half-hour,  quite  mad.  Room  18,  generally 
so  placid  and  so  peaceful,  was  a  howling  wilderness  full  of  brightly 
colored,  quickly  changing  groups  of  children,  all  whispering,  all 
gurgling,  and  all  hiding  queer  bundles. 

Isidore  Belchatosky  was  the  first  to  lay  tribute  before  Teacher.  He 
came  forward  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  tall  candlestick,  and  Teacher, 
for  a  moment,  could  not  be  made  to  understand  that  all  that  length 
of  bluish-white  china  was  really  hers  "for  keeps." 

"It's  to-morrow  holiday,"  Isidore  assured  her;  "and  we  gives  you 
presents,  the  while  we  have  a  kind  feeling.  Candlesticks  could  to  cost 
twenty-five  cents." 

"It's  a  lie!  three  for  ten,"  said  a  voice  in  the  background;  but 
Teacher  hastened  to  respond  to  Isidore's  test  of  her  credulity. 

"Indeed,  they  could.  This  candlestick  could  have  cost  fifty  cents, 
and  ij's  just  what  I  want.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  bring  me  a 
present." 

"You're  welcome,"  said  Isidore,  retiring. 

And  then,  the  ice  being  broken,  the  First-Reader  Class  in  a  body 
rose  to  cast  its  gifts  on  Teacher's  desk,  and  its  arms  around  Teacher's 
neck. 

Nathan  Horowitz  presented  a  small  cup  and  saucer;  Isidore  Apple- 
baum  bestowed  a  large  calendar  for  the  year  before  last;  Sadie  Gonor- 
owsky  brought  a  basket  containing  a  bottle  of  perfume,  a  thimble,  and 
a  bright  silk  handkerchief;  Sarah  Schrodsky  offered  a  pen-wiper  and 
a  yellow  celluloid  collarbutton,  and  Eva  Kidansky  gave  an  elaborate 


140  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

nasal   douche,   under   the  pleasing  delusion  that  it  was  an  atomizer. 

Jacob  Spitsky  pressed  forward  with  a  tortoise-shell  comb  of  terrify- 
ing aspect  and  hungry  teeth,  and  an  air  showing  forth  a  determination 
to  adjust  it  in  its  destined  place.  Teacher  meekly  bowed  her  head; 
Jacob  forced  his  offering  into  her  long-suffering  hair,  and  then  re- 
tired with  the  information  "Costs  fifteen  cents,  Teacher." 

Meanwhile  the  rush  of  presentation  went  steadily  on.  Cups  and 
saucers  came  in  wild  profusion.  The  desk  was  covered  with  them. 
The  soap,  too,  became  urgently  perceptible.  It  was  of  all  sizes,  shapes 
and  colors,  but  of  uniform  and  dreadful  power  of  perfume.  Teacher's 
eyes  filled  with  tears — of  gratitude — as  each  new  piece  or  box  was 
pressed  against  her  nose,  and  Teacher's  mind  was  full  of  wonder  as 
to  what  she  could  ever  do  with  it  all.  Bottles  of  perfume  vied  with 
one  another  and  with  the  all-pervading  soap,  until  the  air  was  heavy 
and  breathing  grew  laborious.  But  pride  swelled  the  hearts  of  the 
assembled  multitude.  No  other  Teacher  -had  so  many  helps  to  the 
toilet.     None  other  was  so  beloved. 

When  the  wastepaper  basket  had  been  twice  filled  with  wrappings 
and  twice  emptied ;  when  order  was  emerging  out  of  chaos ;  when 
the  Christmas-tree  had  been  disclosed  and  its  treasures  distributed,  a 
timid  hand  was  laid  on  Teacher's  knee  and  a  plaintive  voice  whispered, 
"Say,  Teacher,  I  got  something  for  you" ;  and  Teacher  turned  quickly 
to  see  Morris,  her  dearest  boy  charge. 

"Now,  Morris  dear,"  said  Teacher,  "you  shouldn't  have  troubled  to 
get  me  a  present;  you  know  you  and  I  are  such  good  friends  that — " 

"Teacher,  yiss,  ma'am,"  Morris  interrupted,  in  a  bewitching  and  rising 
inflection  of  his  soft  and  plaintive  voice.  "I  know  you  got  a  kind 
feeling  by  me,  and  I  couldn't  to  tell  even  how  I  got  a  kind  feeling  by 
you.  Only  it's  about  that  kind  feeling  I  should  give  you  a  present. 
I  didn't" — with  a  glance  at  the  crowded  desk — "I  didn't  to  have  no 
soap  nor  no  perfumery,  and  my  mamma  she  couldn't  to  buy  none  by 
the  store;  but,  Teacher,  I'm  got  something  awful  nice  for  you  by 
present." 

"And  what  is  it,  deary?"  asked  the  already  rich  and  gifted  young 
person.     "What  is  my  new  present?" 

"Teacher,  it's  like  this :  I  don't  know ;  I  ain't  so  big  like  I  could 
to  know" — and,  truly,  God  pity  him!  he  was  passing  small — "it  ain't 
for  boys — it's  for  ladies.  Over  yesterday  on  the  night  comes  my  papa 
to  my  house,  und  he  gives  my  mamma  the  present.  Sooner  she  looks 
on  it,  sooner  she  has  a  awful  glad;  in  her  eyes  stands  tears,  und  she 


HUMOROUS  141 

says,  like  that— out  of  Jewish — 'Thanks/  un'  she  kisses  my  papa  a  kiss. 
Und  my  papa,  how  he  is  po'lite !  He  says — out  of  Jewish,  too — 'you're 
welcome,  all  right,'  un'  he  kisses  my  mamma  a  kiss.  So  my  mamma, 
she  sets  und  looks  on  the  present,  und  all  the  time  she  looks  she  has 
a  glad  over  it.  Und  I  didn't  to  have  no  soap,  so  you  could  to  have 
the  present." 
"But  did  your  mother  say  I  might?" 

"Teacher,  no,  ma'am;  she  didn't  say  like  that,  und  she  didn't  to  say 
not  like  that.  She  didn't  to  know.  But  it's  for  ladies,  un'  I  didn't 
to  have  no  soap.    You  could  to  look  on  it.    It  ain't  for  boys." 

And  here  Morris  opened  a  hot  little  hand  and  disclosed  a  tightly 
folded  pinkish  paper.  As  Teacher  read  it  he  watched  her  with  eager, 
furtive  eyes,  dry  and  bright,  until  hers  grew  suddenly  moist,  when  his 
promptly  followed  suit.  As  she  looked  down  at  him,  he  made  his 
moan  once  more : 

"It's  for  ladies,  and  I  didn't  to  have  no  soap." 

"But,  Morris  dear,"  cried  Teacher,  unsteadily,  laughing*  a  little,  and 
yet  not  far  from  tears,  "this  is  ever  so  much  nicer  than  soap — a  thou- 
sand times  better  than  perfume ;  and  you're  quite  right,  it  is  for  ladies, 
and  I  never  had  one  in  all  my  life  before.     I  am  so  very  thankful." 

"You're    welcome,    all    right.     That's    how   my   papa   says;    it's   po- 
lite.   Und  my  mamma,"  he   said   insinuatingly — "she  kisses'  my  papa 
a  kiss." 
"Well?"  said  Teacher. 

"Well,"  said  Morris,  "you  ain't  never  kissed  me  a  kiss,  und  I  seen 
how  you  kissed  Eva  Gonorowsky.  I'm  loving  mit  you  too.  Why 
don't  you  never  kiss  me  a  kiss?" 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Teacher  mischievously,  "perhaps  it  ain't  for 
boys." 

"Teacher,  yiss,  ma'am;  it's  for  boys,"  he  cried,  as  he  felt  her  arms 
about  him,  and  saw  that  in  her  eyes,  too,  "stands  tears." 

Late  that  night  Teacher  sat  in  her  pretty  room  and  reviewed  her 
treasures.  She  saw  that  they  were  very  numerous,  very  touching,  very 
whimsical,  and  very  precious.  But  above  all  the  rest  she  cherished  a 
frayed  and  pinkish  paper,  rather  crumpled  and  a  little  soiled.  For  it 
held  the  love  of  a  man  and  a  woman  and  a  little  child,  and  the  magic 
of  a  home,  for  Morris  Mogilewsky's  Christmas  present  for  ladies  was 
the  receipt  for  a  month's  rent  for  a  room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  Monroe 
Street  tenement. — From  "Little  Citizens,"  copyrighted  by  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  arrangement. 


142  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  CAMP-MEETING  AT  BLUFF  SPRINGS 
By  Justin  Truitt  Bishop 

Bascom  Barnard  paused  on  the  kitchen  steps,  and  looked  in  at  the 
door  with  suspicion  and  irritation  in  his  eyes. 

"Bakin'  chickens,  air  ye?"  he  asked.  "Now  I'd  like  to  know  what 
ye're  wastin'  chickens  fur  at  this  rate?  An'  pies  an'  lightbread  an' 
puddin',  well  the  land,  Ma'  Jane,  did  ye  think  we  was  millionaires?" 

"I  didn't  know  but  ye'd  change  your  mind  about  goin'  over  to  the 
camp-meetin'  an'  it  would  help  along  to  have  most  of  the  cookin'  for 
Sunday  done  at  home,"  she  said  humbly. 

"It  does  seem  to  me,  Ma'  Jane,  that  it  takes  more  talkin'  to  convince 
you  of  anything,  than  any  other  seventeen  women  I  ever  have  saw. 
I've  tol'  you  every  day  for  the  last  week  that  we  warn't  goin'  to  that 
dratted  camp-meetin' — that  we  couldn't  both  leave,  and  I  was  bound 
to  go  over  to  the  corners  and  see  Bink  Denny  about  that  land — that 
a  woman's  business  was  at  home,  stid  of  gallivantin'  'round  the  country 
'tendin'  camp-meetin's ;  cain't  you  ever  learn  anything,  Ma'  Jane  ?" 

Ma'  Jane  shut  the  oven  door  and  stood  up;  she  wiped  the  perspira- 
tion from  her  face  with  a  checked  apron. 

"I've  been  hopin'  for  years  that  they'd  have  a  camp-meetin'  near 
enough  for  me  to  go.  I've  not  'tended  since  I  was  a  girl.  Mother 
always  had  a  tent  an'  you  was  glad  enough  to  come  to  camp-meetin' 
then,  Bascom,  an'  this  one's  not  more'n  six  miles  away — an'  I  want 
to  go." 

"Well,  you  know  good  an'  well  you  cain't.  Somebody's  got  to  stay 
on  this  place  to  take  keer  o'  things — an'  since  it  cain't  be  me,  it's  got 
to  be  you." 

"Mary  Hopkins  tol'  me  she'd  save  one  end  of  her  tent  for  me;  it's 
built  o'  boards — two  rooms  and  a  hall  between — an'  there's  a  big  shed 
at  the  back  for  a  dining-room,  an'  I  wanted  to  go  worse'n  I  ever 
wanted  to  go  anywheres,  I  guess." 

"Fur's  that's  concerned,  I  reckon  I  wanted  to  go,  but  you  don't  see 
me  throwin'  our  livin'  away  so's  I  could  gallop  off  to  every  camp- 
meetin'  that  comes  along,  do  ye? 

"I  won't  be  back  for  three  days,"  he  stated,  as  he  went  away.  In 
deep  silence  Ma'  Jane  sat  down  and  looked  at  the  kitchen  table.  It 
was  heaped  with  the  good  things  she  had  prepared  for  the  great 
Sunday  dinner  at  the  camp-ground,  where  it  was  the  joy  of  every 
tenter  to  keep  open  house  and  entertain  all  who  would  come. 


HUMOROUS  143 

True,  Bascom  had  said  all  along  that  they  could  not  go,  yet  she 
had  gone  on  cooking  and  planning.  She  had  even  packed  most  of  the 
things  which  she  would  need  for  housekeeping  in  the  other  end  of 
Mary  Hopkins's  tent. 

Ma'  Jane  went  oujt  to  the  barn  and  looked  at  the  cows,  which  were 
ready  to  eat  again,  having  been  fed  fully  an  hour  before. 

"Drat  ye,"  said  she  vindictively.  Coming  from  Ma'  Jane,  this  might 
have  been  considered  mild  profanity. 

Her  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  she  wept  remorsefully  on 
the  outstretched  nose  of  the  nearest  cow.  "It's  about  time  I  was  goin' 
to  camp-meetin',"  she  said.  "If  I  ain't  gettin'  to  be  a  heathen,  I  dunno 
who  is." 

As  she  slowly  walked  out  of  the  barn,  the  two  cows  followed  her, 
and  it  was  at  the  barn-door  that  an  inspiration  came  to  Ma'  Jane 
Barnard. 

Her  face  paled  a  moment,  and  then  flushed  crimson.  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat — "them  cows  lead  like  dogs,"  she  whispered. 

Bascom  Barnard's  work  at  the  corners  was  over  in  less  time  than 
he  had  contemplated.  In  fact,  he  met  Bink  Denny  coming  out  of  the 
"First  and  Last  Chance"  in  such  a  state  of  intoxication  that  Bascom 
was  glad  to  tear  himself  away  and  set  forth  on  the  homeward  road. 

He  went  slowly  and  sorrowfully,  because  if  he  went  home,  Ma' 
Jane  would  insist  on  going  to  camp-meeting  and  he  would  be  left 
alone  over  Sunday.  The  few  times  when  he  'had  been  left  to  look 
after  the  house  had  been  brief  but  memorable.  Of  course,  it  was  no 
trouble  for  Ma'  Jane  to  run  the  place.  She  was  already  reconciled 
to  the  staying  at  home  now,  anyway,  and  did  not  expect  to  go  to  the 
camp-meeting. 

Bascom  was  silent  on  his  way  home — only  two  or  three  miles  off 
the  road — and  he  really  felt  that  it  would  do  him  good  to  see  what 
a  camp-meeting  was  like  once  more.  He  felt  that  he  might  finish  up 
the  day  there  at  any  rate,  and  then  go  home  and  give  Ma'  Jane  a 
chance;  or  he  might  stay  over  Sunday  at  the  camp-grounds,  and  then 
go  back  to  the  corners,  find  Bink  Denny  sober,  and  transact  his  business 
according  to  the  first  arrangement. 

Bascom  Barnard  turned  into  the  road  that  led  to  Bluff  Springs.  The 
sound  of  hammering  and  sawing,  and  the  merry  clatter  of  tongues 
proclaimed  the  camp-ground  before  he  was  in  sight  of  it.  He  rode  into 
the  busy  little  city  where  board  and  canvas  tents  were  going  up  like 
magic.     Brother  Wilkins,  the  minister,  called  cheerfully: 

"Hello,  Brother  Barnard,  where's  Sister  Barnard,  ain't  she  coming?" 


144  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"She  kinder  thot  she  wouldn't  come.  Ma'  Jane  sets  a  lot  o'  store 
by  the  cows  and  things,  ye  see — so  she  reckoned  she'd  stay." 

He  rode  hurriedly  down  the  line  of  tents,  where  a  fire  of  questions 
met  him  at  every  turn. 

"I  jes  couldn't  get  Ma'  Jane  to  come,"  he  explained  to  Miss  Mirandy 
Barr.  "It  don't  suit  her  to  come  away  and  leave  things  at  six's  and 
seven's,  as  she  says,  so  she  jes  stays  by  the  stuff,  Ma'  Jane  does." 

Bascom  Barnard  began  helping  people  to  get  their  tents  in  order. 

Before  noon,  he  told  his  friends  that  Ma'  Jane  didn't  know  what 
she  was  missing,  and  immediately  after  dinner — chicken-pie  and  fixin's 
— if  they  thought  it  would  do  any  good,  he  would  go  after  Ma'  Jane  yet 
and  make  her  come,  whether  or  no. 

Just  before  the  afternoon  service,  he  said  it  was  an  awful  mistake 
to  have  a  body's  mind  on  worldly  things. 

In  the  still  hours  of  the  night  Bascom  reasoned  it  out.  He  had  not 
treated  himself  to  a  holiday  this  many  a  year,  and  now  he  felt  he  was 
entitled  to  one.  Ma'  Jane  could  take  hers  some  other  time;  besides, 
a  woman's  work  was  never  wearin'  like  a  man's — keepin'  house  was 
like  play  compared  with  what  he  had  been  called  upon  to  do.  He 
turned  over  on  the  fragrant  hay  mattress,  with  which  Sister  Qark 
had  provided  him,  and  went  comfortably  to  sleep. 

The*  clear  notes  of  a  horn  roused  everybody  for  the  sunrise  prayer- 
meeting,  and  Bascom  hurried  arbor-wards  with  the  others. 

"Will  Brother  Barnard  please  lead  us  in  prayer?"  said  the  minister, 
when  the  first  hymn  had  been  sung.  Brother  Barnard  found  himself 
on  his  knees  stumbling  over  a  few  familiar  phrases ;  as  he  went  on  he 
gained  confidence  and  his  voice  became  assured.  He  remarked  upon 
the  fact  that  our  days  are  few  and  evil. 

After  a  few  similar  remarks,  he  got  in  full  swing — time  was  no 
object — scraps  of  forgotten  phrases  from  prayers  heard  in  his  youth 
tumbled  forth  in  picturesque  confusion.  The  hour  for  prayer-meeting 
to  close  had  come  when  he  began  to  pray  for  the  heathen,  and  this 
took  time  of  itself.  When  he  had  worked  around  to  the  sinful  and 
depraved  of  our  own  land,  everybody  would  have  been  impatient,  but 
for  the  fact  that  something  had  happened — something  that  Bascom 
could  not  see,  as  his  eyes  were  shut.  There  were  some  who  kept  their 
eyes  open  when  they  prayed;  these  nudged  each  other  excitedly. 

"An'  now,  Lord,"  pleaded  Brother  Bascom  Barnard,  pounding  the 
bench  in  front  of  him  with  a  clenched  fist,  "be  with  all  that's  near 
and  dear  to  them  that's  gathered  here  to  worship  Thee.  Be  with  them 
that's  stayed  by  the  stuff — an'  if  they've  stayed  away  from  this  blessed 


HUMOROUS  145 

place  because  they're  cold  or  hard-hearted — as  we  fear  some  of  'em 
has — O  Lord,  melt  their  hearts  of  stone  an'  make  'em  see  that  they're 
hangin'  over  eternal  punishment  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  angels." 

"Amen,"  said  a  clear  voice,  undeniably  feminine,  which  seemed  in 
some  unaccountable  way  to  come  from  the  wrong  direction. 

Bascom  was  kneeling  in  the  sawdust  near  the  altar,  and  facing  the 
congregation.  The  voice  came  from  behind  him.  Involuntarily  he 
looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  At  the  same  moment  a  faint  giggle 
arose  somewhere  down  among  the  benches  where  the  congregation 
was  kneeling. 

An  old  horse  and  wagon  had  drawn  up  close  at  the  edge  of  the 
arbor,  and  Ma'  Jane,  her  best  bonnet  tied  under  her  chin,  held  the 
reins.  The  wagon  was  piled  high  with  a  medley  of  things  pertaining 
to  housekeeping.  Three  coops  of  excited  chickens  topped  the  pile, 
the  anxious  mewing  of  a  cat  came  from  a  basket  behind  the  seat, 
and  tied  to  the  back  of  the  wagon  were  two  cows,  both  intimating 
that  something  to  eat  would  be  quite  acceptable.  Under  the  wagon 
sat  the  black  puppy,  its  astonished  head  to  one  side  as  it  viewed  its 
master  under  these  unaccustomed  circumstances. 

Every  one  had  arisen  and  was  looking  with  might  and  main.  The 
minister  hastily  pronounced  the  benediction. 

"I'm  sorry  to  move  in  on  Sunday,"  explained  Ma'  Jane,  "but  it's 
took  me  all 'night  to  get  ready  an'  to  come.  My  husband  couldn't  help 
me  because  he  was  over  to  the  corners,  makin'  a  trade  with  Bink 
Denny.  I  warn't  goin'  to  stay  at  home  tendin'  the  cows  and  things 
while  camp-meetin'  was  goin'  on  only  six  miles  away,  so  I  brung  'em 
all  along.  'Long  as  Bascom's  not  here,  if  some  of  you  would  help 
me  unload  at  Mary  Hopkins's  tent,  I'd  be  thankful,  an'  you'll  take 
dinner  with  me  to-day,  Brother  Wilkins — an'  as  many  more  as  can 
crowd  in." 

That  dinner  in  the  other  end  of  Mary  Hopkins's  tent,  was  a  thing 
long  to  be  remembered.  Bascom  crept  meekly  in  after  awhile  and 
offered  himself  at  least  as  a  guest.  But  Ma'  Jane  remarked  dryly, 
"My  husband  not  bein'  here,  I  reckon  I  can't  take  you  in — I  ain't 
makin'  no  new  acquaintances."  He  went  away  and  ate  with  Miss 
Mirandy  Barr,  who  had  corn-beef  and  cold  potatoes  for  dinner.  Some- 
how everything  was  different. 

The  minister's  sermon  on  hypocrisy  that  afternoon  was  something 
terrible  to  hear,  and  sounded  personal  to  the  last  degree.  Another 
meal  at  Miss  Mirandy  Barr's  with  a  night  on  a  pallet  at  Sister  Clark's 
prepared  Bascom  to  enter  upon  another  day  with  a  chastened  spirit, 


146  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

but  there  was  no  relenting  on  the  part  of  Ma'  Jane.  Between  sermons 
he  heard  goodly  sounds  of  cooking  at  her  tent  and,  wandering  near, 
smelled  such  odors  as  tore  his  very  being  asunder.  But  he  was  an 
outcast  there,  and  might  not  hope  to  enter.  He  listened  to  the  sermons 
in  gloomy  silence ;  his  voice  was  not  raised  in  the  hymns. 

But  when  the  long  day  had  worn  itself  out,  and  the  night  service 
was  going  on,  he  sat  looking  around  on  the  scene  from  which  it  seemed 
that  he  was  all  at  once  shut  out. 

Over  there  in  the  brightest  light  he  saw  Ma'  Jane,  her  face  lifted, 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap.  He  saw  how  gray  she  was  getting  and 
how  shabby.  That  best  bonnet  of  hers  had  been  bought  fifteen  years 
before,  and  she  had  washed  the  ribbon  and  retrimmed  it  many  times. 
While  he  looked  he  saw  the  tears  on  her  face  too.  The  hands  she 
raised  to  wipe  them  were  rough  and  hard ;  how  she  must  have  worked ! 

The  minister  had  turned  towards  him  and  looked  into  his  eyes.  What 
he  saw  there  decided  him — "Will  Brother  Bascom  Barnard  lead  us  in 
prayer?"  And  Brother  Bascom  Barnard  fell  on  his  knees,  shaken 
with  sobs. 

"The  Lord  forgive  us  for  bein'  miserable  fools,"  he  cried,  "an'  give 
us  a  chance  to  try  again  an'  see  if  we  can't  do  better  next  time,  Amen !" 
It  was  a  very  complete  prayer ;  after  it  was  over  Bascom  found  a  hand 
on  his  arm,  and  there  was  Ma'  Jane  looking  up  at  him. 

"I've  got  some  chicken-pie  saved  up  for  you,  Bascom,"  she  whispered. 
And  they  went  away  toward  the  tent,  arm  in  arm,  walking  where  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  lay  thickest.  "It  looks  like  we're  goin'  to  have 
a  great  meetin',"  he  said,  stumbling.  "I'm  awful  glad  you  got  a  chance 
to  come,  Ma'  Jane." 

THE  CATACOMBS  OF  PALERMO 
J.  Ross  Browne 

Chief  among  the  wonders  of  Palermo  are  the  Catacombs  of  the 
Capuchin  Convent,  near  to  Porta  d'Ossuna.  It  is  said  to  be  a  place 
of  great  antiquity;  many  of  the  bodies  have  been  preserved  in  it  for 
centuries,  and  still  retain  much  of  their  original  freshness.  Entering 
the  ancient  and  ruinous  court  of  the  convent,  distant  about  a  mile 
from  the  city,  I  was  conducted  by  a  ghostly-looking  monk  through 
some  dark  passages  to  the  subterranean  apartments  of  the  dead.  It 
was  not  my  first  visit  to  a  place  of  this  kind,  but  I  must  confess  the 
sight  was  rather  startling.    It  was  like  a  revel  of  the  dead — a  horrible, 


HUMOROUS  147 

grinning,  ghastly  exhibition  of  skeleton  forms,  sightless  eyes,  and 
shining  teeth,  jaws  distended,  and  bony  hands  outstretched;  heads 
without  bodies,  and  bodies  without  heads — the  young,  the  old,  the 
brave,  the  once  beautiful  and  gay,  all  mingled  in  the  ghastly  throng. 
I  walked  through  long  subterranean  passages,  lined  with  the  dead 
on  both  sides ;  with  a  stealthy  and  measured  tread  I  stepped,  for  they 
seemed  to  stare  at  the  intrusion,  and  their  skeleton  fingers  vibrated 
as  if  yearning  to  grasp  the  living  in  their  embrace.  Long  rows  of  up- 
right niches  are  cut  into  the  walls  on  each  side;  in  every  niche  a 
skeleton  form  stands  erect  as  in  life,  habited  in  a  robe  of  black;  the 
face,  hands,  and  feet  naked,  withered,  and  of  an  ashy  hue ;  the  grizzled 
beards  still  hanging  in  tufts  from  the  jaws,  but  matted  and  dry.  To 
each  corpse  is  attached  a  label  upon  which  is  written  the  name  and 
the  date  of  decease,  and  a  cross  or  the  image  of  the  Saviour.  .  .  . 

Who  was  the  prince  here?  Who  was  the  great  man,  or  the  proud 
man,  or  the  rich  man?  The  musty,  grinning,  ghastly  skeleton  in  the 
corner  seemed  to  chuckle  at  the  thought,  and  say  to  himself,  "Was  it 
you,  there  on  the  right,  you  ugly,  noseless,  sightless,  disgusting  thing? 
Was  it  you  that  rode  in  your  fine  carriage,  about  a  year  ago,  and 
thought  yourself  so  great  when  you  ordered  your  coachman  to  drive 
over  the  beggar?  Don't  you  see  he  is  as  handsome  as  you  are  now, 
and  as  great  a  man ;  you  can't  cut  him  down  now,  my  fine  fellow ! 
And  you,  there  on  the  left.  What  a  nice  figure  you  are,  with  your 
fleshless  shanks  and  your  worm-eaten  lips!  It  was  you  that  betrayed 
youth  and  beauty  and  innocence,  and  brought  yourself  here  at  last 
to  keep  company  with  such  wretches  as  I  am.  Why,  there  is  not  a 
living  thing  now,  save  the  maggots,  that  wouldn't  turn  away  in  dis- 
gust from  you.  And  you,  sir,  on  the  opposite  side,  how  proud  you 
were  the  last  time  I  saw  you ;  an  officer  of  state,  a  great  man  in  power, 
who  could  crush  all  below  you,  and  make  the  happy  wife  a  widowed 
mourner,  and  bring  her  little  babes  to  starvation;  it  was  you  who  had 
innocent  men  seized  and  thrown  into  prison.  What  can  you  do  now? 
The  meanest  wretch  that  mocks  you  in  this  vault  of  death  is  as  good 
as  you,  as  strong,  as  great,  as  tall,  as  broad,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  mortal- 
ity, and  a  great  deal  nearer  to  heaven.  Oh,  you  are  a  nice  set  of 
fellows,  all  mixing  together  without  ceremony!  Where  are  your  rules 
of  etiquette  now ;  your  fashionable  ranks,  and  your  plebeian  ranks  ; 
your  thousands  of  admiring  friends,  your  throngs  of  jeweled  visitors? 
Why,  the  lowliest  of  us  has  as  many  visitors  here,  and  as  many  honest 
tears  shed  as  you.  Ha!  Ha!  This  is  a  jolly  place,  after  all;  we  are 
all  a  jolly  set  of  republicans,  and  old  Death  is  our  President. — From 


148  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Yusef,   or   the   Journey   of    the    Frangi."     Published   by   Harper    6* 
Brothers  and  used  by  their  kind  permission. 

GETTING  READY  FOR  THE  TRAIN 
By  Robert  J.  Burdette 

When  they  reached  the  station,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Man  gazed  in  un- 
speakable disappointment  at  the  receding  train  which  was  just  pulling 
away  from  the  station  at  the  rate  of  about  a  thousand  miles  a  minute. 
Their  first  impulse  was  to  run  after  it,  but  as  the  train  was  out  of 
sight  and  whistling  for  the  next  station  before  they  could  >act  upon 
this  impulse,  they  remained  in  the  auto  and  disconsolately  turned 
homeward. 

"It  all  comes  of  having  to  wait  for  a  woman  to  get  ready  1" 

"I  was  ready  before  you  were!" 

"Great  heavens,  just  listen  to  that  I  And  I  sat  out  in  the  car  ten 
minutes  yelling  for  you  to  come  along  until  the  whole  neighborhood 
heard  me!" 

"Yes,  and  every  time  I  started  down  the  stairs  you  sent  me  back 
after  something  you  had  forgotten." 

Mr.  Man  groaned.  "This  is  too  much  to  bear  when  everybody  knows 
that  if  I  were  going  to  Europe  I  would  just  rush  in  the  house,  put  on 
a  clean  shirt,  grab  a  grip  and  fly,  while  you  would  want  at  least  six 
months  to  get  ready  in  and  then  dawdle  around  the  whole  day  of 
starting  until  every  train  had  left  town." 

Well,  the  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  Mans  put  off  their  visit 
to  San  Diego  until  the  next  week,  when  it  was  agreed  that  each  one 
should  get  himself  or  herself  ready,  set  down  to  the  train  and  go. 
And  the  one  who  failed  to  get  ready  should  be  left. 

The  day  of  the  match  came  around  in  due  time.  The  train  was  to 
leave  at  ten-thirty  and  Mr.  Man,  after  attending  to  business,  came  home 
at  nine  forty-five. 

"Now,  then,  only  three-quarters  of  an  hour  until  train  time.  Fly 
around.    A  fair  field  and  no  favors,  you  know." 

And  away  they  flew.  Mr.  Man  bulged  into  this  room,  and  rushed 
through  that,  and  into  one  closet  after  another,  with  inconceivable 
chuckling  under  his  breath  all  the  time  to  think  how  cheap  Mrs.  Man 
would  feel  when  he  started  off  alone.  He  stopped  on  the  way  up- 
stairs to  pull  off  his  heavy  boots  to  save  time.  For  the  same  reason 
he  pulled  off  his  coat  as  he  ran  through  the  dining-room  and  hung  it 


HUMOROUS  149 

on  the  corner  of  the  silver  closet.  Then  he  jerked  off  his  vest  as  he 
ran  through  the  hall  and  tossed  it  on  a  hook  on-  the  hatrack,  and  by 
the  time  he  reached  his  own  room  he  was  ready  to  plunge  into  clean 
clothes.  He  pulled  out  a  dresser  drawer  and  began  to  paw  among 
the  things  like  a  Scotch  terrier  after  a  rat.  "Elinor,  where  are  my 
shirts?" 

"In  your  dresser  drawer." 

"Well,  but  they  ain't.  I've  pulled  out  every  last  thing  and  there  isn't 
a  thing  I've  ever  seen  before." 

(Laughing.)  "These  things  scattered  around  on  the  floor  are  all 
mine ;  perhaps  you  haven't  been  looking  in  your  own  drawer." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't  put  my  things  out  for  me,  when  you 
had  nothing  to  do  all  morning." 

"Because — because,  nobody  put  mine  out.  A  fair  field  and  no  favors, 
my  dear." 

Mr.  Man  plunged  into  his  shirt.    "Gad,  no  buttons  on  the  neck!" 

"Because  you  have  it  on  wrong  side  out." 

When  his  head  came  through  the  clock  struck  ten.  "Where's  my 
shirt  studs?" 

"In  the  shirt  you  just  pulled  off."  Mrs.  Man  put  on  her  gloves  while 
Mr.  Man  hunted  up  and  down  the  room  for  his  cuff  buttons. 

"Elinor,  I  believe  you  must  know  where  those  buttons  are." 

"I  didn't  see  them.  Didn't  you  leave  them  on  the  window-sill  in  the 
living-room  last  night?" 

Mr.  Man  remembered,  and  down  the  stairs  he  flew.  He  stepped  on 
one  of  his  boots  and  was  immediately  landed  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
with  neatness  and  dispatch,  attended  in  the  transmission  with  more 
bumps  than  he  could  count. 

"Are  you  nearly  ready,  dear?" 

The  unhappy  man  groaned.  "Can't  you  throw  me  down  my  other 
boot?" 

Mrs.  Man  pitifully  kicked  it  down  to  him. 

"My  valise?" 

"In  your  dressing-room." 

"Packed?" 

"I  do  not  know ;  unless  you  packed  it  yourself  probably  not.     I  had 
hardly  time  to  pack  my  own."     She  was  passing  out  of  the  gate  when 
the  door  opened  and  he  shouted:     "Where  in  the  name  of  goodness 
did  you  put  my  vest?     It  has  all  my  money  in  it." 
"You  threw  it  on  the  hatrack;  good-by,  dear." 
Before  she  reached  the  corner  of  the  street  she  was  hailed  again. 


150  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Elinor!     Elinor  Man!     Did  you  wear  off  my  coat?" 

She  paused  after  signaling  the  street  car  to  stop,  and  cried:  "You 
threw  it  on  the  silver-closet,"  and  the  street  car  engulfed  her  graceful 
form  and  she  was  seen  no  more. 

But  the  neighbors  say  that  they  heard  Mr.  Man  charging  up  and 
down  the  house,  rushing  out  to  the  front  door  every  now  and  then 
and  shrieking  up  the  deserted  street  after  the  unconscious  Mrs.  Man 
to  know  where  his  hat  was  and  where  did  she  put  the  valise  key,  and 
that  there  wasn't  a  linen  collar  in  the  house. 

And'  when  he  went  away  at  last  he  left  the  front  door,  the  kitchen 
door,  and  side  door,  all  the  down-stairs  windows  and  front  gate  wide 
open,  and  the  loungers  around  the  station  were  somewhat  amused, 
just  as  the  train  was  pulling  out  of  sight  down  in  the  yards,  to  see  a 
flushed,  perspiring  man  with  his  hat  on  sideways,  his  vest  unbuttoned, 
necktie  flying,  and  his  grip  flapping  open  and  shut  like  a  demented 
shutter  on  a  March  night,  and  a  doorkey  in  his  hand,  dash  wildly 
across  the  platform  and  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  track,  glaring  in 
dejected,  impatient,  wrathful  mortification  at  the  departing  train,  and 
shaking  his  fist  at  the  pretty  woman  who  was  throwing  kisses  at  him 
from  the  rear  platform  of  the  last  car. 

"A  fair  field  and  no  favors,  my  dear!" 

A  STARTLING  ADVENTURE 
By  J.  Ross  Browne 

I  descended  several  of  these  shafts  rather  to  oblige  my  friend,  the 
Judge,  than  to  satisfy  any  curiosity  I  had  on  the  subject  myself. 
This  thing  of  being  dropped  down  two  hundred  feet  into  the  bowels 
of  the  earth  in  wooden  buckets,  and  hoisted  out  by  blind  horses  at- 
tached to  "whims,"  may  be  very  amusing  to  read  about,  but  I  have 
enjoyed  pleasanter  modes  of  locomotion.  There  was  one  shaft  in 
particular  that  left  an  indelible  impression  upon  my  mind — so  much 
so,  indeed,  that  I  am  astonished  every  hair  in  my  head  is  not  quite 
gray.  It  was  in  the  San  Antonia,  a  mine  in  which  the  Judge  held 
an  interest  in  connection  with  a  worthy  Norwegian  by  the  name  of 
Jansen.  As  I  had  traveled  in  Norway,  Jansen  was  enthusiastic  in  his 
devotion  to  my  enjoyment — declared  he  would  go  down  with  me  him- 
self and  show  me  everything  worth  seeing — even  to  the  lower  level 
just  opened.  While  I  was  attempting  to  frame  an  excuse  the  honest 
Norwegian  had  lighted  a  couple  of  candles,  given  directions  to  one 


HUMOROUS  151 

of  the  "boys"  to  look  out  for  the  old  blind  horse  attached  to  the 
"whim"  and  now  stood  ready  at  the  mouth  of  the  shaft  to  guide 
me  into  the  subterranean  regions. 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  looking  with  horror  at  the  rickety  wooden 
bucket  and  the  flimsy  little  rope  that  was  to  hold  us  suspended  be- 
tween the  surface  of  the  earth  and  eternity,  "is  that  rope  strong?" 

"Well,  I  think  it's  strong  enough  to  hold  us,"  replied  Jansen;  "it 
carries  a  ton  of  ore.     We  don't  weigh  a  ton,  I  guess." 

"But  the  bucket  looks  fearfully  battered.  And  who  can  vouch  that 
the  old  horse  won't  run  away  and  let  us  down  by  the  run?" 

"Oh,  sir,  he's  used  to  it.  That  horse  never  runs.  You  see,  he's 
fast  asleep  now.  He  sleeps  all  along  on  the  down  turn.  It's  the  up 
turn  that  gets  him." 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  "all  that  may  be  true;  but  suppose  the  bucket 
should  catch  and  drop  us  out?" 

"Well,  sometimes  it  catches;  but  nobody's  been  hurt  bad  yet;  one 
man  fell  fifteen  feet  perpendicular.    He  lit  on  the  top  of  his  head." 

"Wasn't  he  killed  ?" 

"No;  he  was  only  stunned  a  little.  There  was  a  buzzing  about 
among  his  brains  for  a  few  days  after ;  he's  at  work  down  below  now, 
as  well  as  ever." 

"Mr.  Jansen,  upon  the  whole  I  think  I'd  rather  go  down  by  the 
ladder,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

"Certainly,  sir,  suit  yourself;  only  the  ladder's  sort  o'  broke  in 
spots,  and  you'll  find  it  a  tolerably  hard  climb  down;  how-so-ever, 
I'll  go  ahead  and  sing  out  when  I  come  to  bad  places." 

With  this  the  Norwegian  disappeared.  I  looked  down  after  him. 
The  shaft  was  about  four  feet  square;  rough,  black  and  dismal,  with 
a  small,  flickering  light,  apparently  a  thousand  feet  below,  making  the 
darkness  visible.  It  was  almost  perpendicular ;  the  ladders  stood 
against  the  near  side,  perched  on  ledges  or  hanging  together  by  means 
of  chafed  and  ragged-looking  ropes.  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  taken 
Jansen's  advice  and  committed  myself  to  the  bucket;  but  it  was  now 
too  late.  With  a  hurried  glance  at  the  bright  world  around  me,  a 
thought  of  home  and  unhappy  conditions  of  widows  and  orphans,  as 
a  general  thing,  I  seized  the  rungs  of  the  ladder  and  took  the  ir- 
revocable dive.  Down  I  crept,  rung  after  rung,  ladder  after  ladder, 
in  the  black  darkness,  with  the  solid  walls  of  rock  pressing  the  air 
close  around  me.  Sometimes  I  heard  the  incoherent  muttering  of 
voices  below,  but  could  make  nothing  of  them.  Perhaps  Jansen  was 
warning  me  of  breaks  in  the  ladder;  perhaps  his  voice  was  split  up  by 


152  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

the  rocks  and  sounded  like  many  voices;  or  it  might  be  there  were 
gnomes  whisking  about  in  the  dark  depths  below.  Down  and  still 
down  I  crept,  slower  and  slower,  for  I  was  getting  tired,  and  I  fancied 
there  might  be  poisonous  gases  in  the  air.  When  I  had  reached  the 
depth  of  a  thousand  feet,  as  it  seemed,  but  about  a  hundred  and  forty 
as  it  was  in  reality,  the  thought  occurred-  to  me  that  I  was  beginning 
to  get  alarmed.  In  truth  I  was* shaking  like  a  man  with  the  ague. 
Suppose  I  should  become  nervous  and  lose  my  hold  on  the  ladder? 
The  very  idea  was  enough  to  make  me  shaky.  There  was  an  indefinite 
extent  of  shaft  underneath,  black,  narrow  and  scraggy,  with  a  solid 
base  of  rock  at  the  bottom.  I  did  not  wonder  that  it  caused  a  buzzing 
of  the  brain  to  fall  fifteen  feet  and  light  on  top  of  the  head.  My 
brain  was  buzzing  already,  and  I  had  not  fallen  yet.  But  the  pros- 
pect to  that  effect  was  getting  better  and  better  every  moment,  for  I 
was  now  quite  out  of  breath,  and  had  to  stop  and  cling  around  the 
ladder  to  avoid  falling.  The  longer  I  stood  this  way  the  more  certain 
it  became  that  I  should  lose  my  balance  and  topple  over.  With  a  des- 
perate effort  I  proceeded,  step  after  step,  clinging  desperately  to  the 
frail  wood-work  as  the  drowning  man  clings  to  a  straw,  gasping  for 
breath,  the  cold  sweat  streaming  down  my  face,  and  my  jaws  chatter- 
ing audibly.  The  breaks  in  the  ladder  were  getting  fearfully  common. 
Sometimes  I  found  two  rungs  gone,  sometimes  six  or  seven,  and  then 
I  had  to  slide  down  by  the  sides  till  my  feet  found  a  resting-place  on 
another  rung  or  some  casual  ledge  of  rock.  To  Jansen,  or  the  miners 
who  worked  down  in  the  shaft  every  day,  all  of  this,  of  course,  was 
mere  pastime.  They  knew  every  break  and  resting-place;  and  be- 
sides, familiarity  with  any  particular  kind  of  danger  blunts  the  sense 
of  it.  I  am  confident  that  I  could  make  the  same  trip  now  without 
experiencing  any  unpleasant  sensation.  By  good  fortune  I  at  length 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  where  I  found  my  Norwegian  friend 
and  some  three  or  four  workmen  quietly  awaiting  my  arrival.  A 
bucket  of  ore,  containing  some  five  or  six  hundred  pounds,  was  ready 
to  be  hoisted  up.  It  was  very  nice-looking  ore,  and  very  rich  ore, 
as  Jansen  assured  me;  but  what  did  I  care  about  ore  till  I  got  the 
breath  back  again  into  my  body? 

"Stand  from  under,  sir,"  said  Jansen,  dodging  into  a  hole  in  the 
rocks ;  "a  chunk  of  ore  might  fall  out,  or  the  bucket  might  give  way." 

Stand  from  under?  Where  in  the  name  of  sense  was  a  man  to 
stand  in  such  a  hole  as.  this,  not  more  than  six  or  eight  feet  square 
at  the  base,  with  a  few  dark  chasms  in  the  neighborhood  through 
which  it  was  quite  possible  to  be  precipitated  into  the  infernal  regions? 


HUMOROUS  153 

However,  I  stood  as  close  to*  the  wall  as  was  possible  without  backing 
clean  into  it.  The  bucket  of  ore  having  gone  up  out  of  sight,  I  was 
now  introduced  to  the  ledge  upon  which  the  men  were  at  work.  It 
was  about  four  feet  thick,  clearly  denned,  and  apparently  rich  in  the 
precious  metals.  In  some  specimens  which  I  took  out  myself  gold 
was  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  The  indications  of  silver  were  also 
well  marked.  This  was  at  a  depth  of  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet. 
At  the  bottom  of  this  shaft  there  was  a  loose  flooring  of  rafters  and 
planks. 

"If  you  like,"  said  Jansen,  "we'll  go  down  here  and  take  a  look 
at  the  lower  drift.  They've  just  struck  the  ledge  about  forty  feet 
below." 

"Are  the  ladders  as  good  as  those  above,  Mr.  Jansen?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir;  they're  all  good;  some  of  the  lower  ones  may  be 
busted  a  little  with  the  blastin';  but  there's  two  men  down  there. 
Guess  they  got  down  somehow." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Jansen,  I'm  not  curious  about  the  lower 
drift.  You  can  show  me  some  specimens  cf  the  ore,  and  that  will 
be  quite  satisfactory." 

"Yes,  sir,  but  I'd  like  you  to  see  the  vein  where'  the  drift  strikes  it. 
It's  really  beautiful." 

A  beautiful  sight  down  in  this  region  was  worth  looking  at,  so 
I  succumbed.  Jansen  lifted  up  the  planks,  told  the  men  to  cover  us 
well  up  as  soon  as  we  had  disappeared,  in  order  to  keep  the  ore  from 
the  upper  shaft  from  tumbling  on  our  heads,  and  then,  diving  down, 
politely  requested  me  to  follow.  I  had  barely  descended  a  few  steps 
when  the  massive  rafters  and  planks  were  thrown  across  overhead 
and  thus  all  exit  to  the  outer  world  was  cut  off.  There  was  an  op- 
pressive sensation  in  being  so  completely  isolated  from  the  outside 
world — barred  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  surface  of  the  earth.  Yet 
how  many  there  are  w'ho  spend  half  their  lives  in  such  a  place  for  a 
pittance  of  wages  which  they  squander  in  dissipation!  Surely  it  is 
worth  four  dollars  a  day  to  work  in  these  dismal  holes. 

Bracing  my  nerves  with  such  thoughts  as  these,  I  scrambled  down 
the  rickety  ladders  till  the  last  rung  seemed*  to  have  disappeared.  I 
probed  about  with  a  spare  leg  for  a  landing  place,  but  could  touch 
neither  top,  bottom  nor  sides.  The  ladder  was  apparently  suspended 
in  space  like  Mohammed's  coffin. 

"Come  on,  sir,"  cried  the  voice  of  Jansen  far  down  below.  "They're 
going  to  blast." 

Pleasant,  if  not  picturesque,  to  be  hanging  by  two  arms  afld,  one  leg 


154  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

to  a  ladder,  squirming  about  in  search  of  a  foothold,  while  somebody 
below  was  setting  fire  to  a  fuse  with  the  design,  no  doubt,  of  blowing 
up  the  entire  premises! 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  of  unnatural  calmness,  while  the 
big  drops  of  agony  stood  on  my  brow,  "there's  no  difficulty  in  saying 
'Come  on,  sir!'  but  to  do  it  without  an  inch  more  of  ladder  or  any- 
thing else  that  I  can  see,  requires  both  time  and  reflection.  How  far 
do  you  expect  me  to  drop?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  let  go,  sir.  Just  hang  on  to  that  rope  at  the  bottom, 
of  the  ladder,  and  let  yourself  down." 

I  hung  on  as  directed  and  let  myself  down.  It  was  plain  sailing 
enough  to  one  who  knew  the  chart.  The  ladder,  it  seemed,  had  been 
broken  by  a  blast  of  rocks ;  and  now  there  was  to  be  another  blast. 
We  retired  into  a  convenient  hole  about  ten  or  a  dozen  paces  from 
the  deposit  of  Hazard's  powder.  The  blast  went  off  with  a  dead 
reverberation,  causing  a  concussion  in  the  air  that  affected  one.  like 
a  shock  of  galvanism;  and  then  there  was  a  diabolical  smell  of  brim- 
stone. Jansen  was  charmed  at  the  result.  A  mass  of  the  ledge  was 
burst  clean  open.  He  grasped  up  the  blackened  fragments  of  quartz, 
licked  them  with  his  tongue,  held  them  up  to  the  candle,  and  con- 
stantly exclaimed:  "There,  sir,  there!  Isn't  it  beautiful?  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  it? — pure  gold,  almost — here  it  is! — don't  you 
see  it?" 

I  suppose  I  saw  it ;  at  all  events  I  put  some  specimens  in  my  pocket, 
and  saw  them  afterward  out  in  the  pure  sunlight,  where  the  smoke 
was  not  so  dense ;  and  it  is  due  to  the  great  cause  of  truth  to  say  that 
gold  was  there  in  glittering  specks,  as  if  shaken  over  it  from  a  pepper- 
box. 

Having  concluded  my*  examination  of  the  mine,  I  took  the  bucket 
as  a  medium  of  exit,  being  fully  satisfied  with  the  ladders.  About 
half-way  up  the  shaft  the  iron  swing  or  handle  to  which  the  rope  was 
attached  caught  in  one  of  the  ladders.  The  rope  stretched.  I  felt  it 
harden  and  grow  thin  in  my  hands.  The  bucket  began  to  tip  over. 
It  was  pitch  dark  all  around.  Jansen  was  far  below,  coming  up  the 
ladder.  Something  seemed  to  be  creaking,  cracking,  or  giving  way. 
I  felt  the  rough,  heavy  sides  of  the  bucket  press  against  my  legs.  A 
terrible  apprehension  seized  me  that  the  gear  was  tangled  and  would 
presently  snap.  In  the  pitchy  darkness  and  the  confusion  of  the 
moment  I  could  not  conjecture  what  was  the  matter.  I  darted  out 
my  hands,  seized  the  ladder  and,  jerking  myself  high  out  of  the  bucket, 
clambered  up  with  the  agility  of  an  acrobat.     Relieved  of  my  weight, 


HUMOROUS  155 

the  iron  catch  came  loose,  and  up  came  the  bucket  banging  and  thunder- 
ing after  me  with  a  velocity  that  was  perfectly  frightful.  Never  was 
there  such  a  subterranean  chase,  I  verily  believe,  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world.  To  stop  a  single  moment  would  be  certain  destruction, 
for  the  bucket  was  large,  heavy  and  massively  bound  with  iron,  and 
the  space  in  the  shaft  was  not  sufficient  to  admit  of  its  passing  with- 
out crushing  me  flat  against  the  ladder. 

But  such  a  chase  could  not  last  long.  I  felt  my  strength  give  way 
at  every  lift.  The  distance  was  too  great  to  admit  the  hope  of  escape 
by  climbing.  My  only  chance  was  to  seize  the  rope  above  the  bucket 
and  hang  on  to  it.  This  I  did.  It  was  a  lucky  thought— one  of  those 
thoughts  that  sometimes  flash  upon  the  mind  like  inspiration  in  a 
moment  of  peril.  A  few  more  revolutions  of  the  "whim"  brought 
me  so  near  the  surface  that  I  could  see  the  bucket  only  a  few  yards 
below  my  feet.  The  noise  of  the  rope  over  the  block  above  reminded 
me  that  I  had  better  slip  down  a  little  to  save  my  hands,  which  I  did 
in  good  style,  and  was  presently  landed  on  the  upper  crust  of  the 
earth,  all  safe  and  sound,  though  somewhat  dazzled  by  the  light  and 
rattled  by  my  subterranean  experiences. — From  "Adventures  in  the 
Apache  Country,"  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York,  and 
used  by  their  kind  permission. 

HOW  CY  HOPKINS  GOT  A  SEAT 
By  Marshall  P.  Wilder 

In  one  of  the  country  stores  where  they  sell  everything  from  a  silk 
dress  and  a  tub  of  butter  to  a  hot  drink  and  a  cold  meal,  a  lot  of 
farmers  were  sitting  around  the  stove  one  cold  day,  when  in  came 
Farmer  Evans,  who  was  greeted  with : 

"How  d'do,  Ezry?" 

"How  d'do  boys  ?"  After  awhile  he  continued :  "Wa-all,  I've  killed 
my  hog." 

"That  so?     How  much  did  he  weigh?" 

Farmer  Evans  stroked  his  chin  whiskers  meditatively  and  replied : 
"Wa-all,  guess." 

"'Bout  three  hundred,"  said  one  farmer. 

"No." 

"Two  seventy-five,"  ventured  another. 

"No." 

"I  guess  about  three  twenty-five,"  said  a  third. 

"No." 


156  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  all  together  demanded:     "Well,  how  much  did  he  weigh?" 

"Dunno.     Hain't  weighed  him  yet." 

Other  men  kept  dropping  in  and  hugging  the  stove,  for  the  day  was 
cold  and  snowy  outside.  In  came  Cy  Hopkins,  wrapped  in  a  big  over- 
coat, yet  almost  frozen  to  death ;  but  there  wasn't  room  enough  around 
that  stove  to  warm  his  little  finger. 

But  he  didn't  get  mad  about  it;  he  just  said  to  Bill  Stebbins  who 
kept  the  stove:     "Bill,  got  any  raw  oysters?" 

"Yes,  Cy." 

"Well,  just  open  a  dozen  and  feed  'em  to  my  hoss." 

Well,  Stebbins  never  was  scared  by  an  order  from  a  man  whose 
credit  was  good  as  Cy's  was,  so  he  opened  the  oysters  and  took  them 
out,  an'  the  whole  crowd  followed  to  see  a  horse  eat  oysters.  Then 
Cy  picked  out  the  best  seat  near  the  stove  and  dropped  into  it  as  if 
he  had  come  to  stay,  as  he  had. 

Pretty  soon  the  crowd  came  back,  and  the  storekeeper  said:  "Why, 
Cy,  your  hoss  won't  eat  them  oysters." 

"Won't  he?  Well,  then,  bring  'em  here  an'  I'll  eat  'em  myself." — 
From  "The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Street."  Published  and  copyrighted  by 
Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  and  used  by  their  kind  permission  and  that  of 
the  author. 

AN  OVERWORKED  RECITER 

Once  there  was  a  little  boy  whose  name  was  Robert  Reece, 

And  every  Friday  afternoon  he  had  to  say  a  piece, 

So  many  poems  thus  he  learned  that  soon  he  had  a  store 

Of  recitations  in  his  head,  and  still  kept  learning  more. 

And  now  this  is  what  happened:     He  was  called  upon  one  week, 

And  totally  forgot  the  piece  he  was  about  to  speak! 

His  brain  he  cudgeled.    Not  a  word  remained  within  his  head, 

And  he  spoke  at  random,  and  this  is  what  he  said : 

"My  beautiful,  my  beautiful,  who  standest  proudly  by. 
It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus — the  breaking  waves  dashed  high! 
Why  is  the  Forum  crowded?     What  means  this  stir  in  Rome? 
Under  the  spreading  chestnut  tree  there  is  no  place  like  home! 
When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height  cried,  Twinkle,  little  star; 
Shoot  if  you  must  this  old  gray  head,  King  Henry  of  Navarre ! 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  castled  crag  of  Drachenf  els ; 
My  name  is  Norval,  on  the  Grampian  Hills,  ring  out,  wild  bells ! 
If  you're  waking  call  me  early,  To  be  or  not  to  be! 


HUMOROUS  157 

The  curfew  must  not  ring  to-night!  Oh,  woodman,  spare  that  tree! 
Charge,  Chester,  charge !  On,  Stanley,  on  !  And  let  who  will  be  clever, 
The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck,  but  I  go  on  forever!" 

His  elocution  was  superb,  his  voice  and  gesture  fine; 
His  schoolmates  all  applauded  as  he  finished  the  last  line. 
"I  see  it  doesn't  matter,"  Robert  thought,  "What  words  I  say, 
So  long  as  I  declaim  with  oratorical  display !" 

— London  Tid-Bits. 

SETTLING  UNDER  DIFFICULTIES 
By  Robert  J.  Burdette 

Strangers  visiting  the  beautiful  city  of  Burlington  have  not  failed  to 
notice  that  one  of  the  handsomest  young  men  they  meet  is  very  bald, 
and  they  fall  into  the  usual  error  of  attributing  this  premature  bald- 
ness to  dissipation.  But  such  is  not  the  case.  This  young  man,  one 
of  the  most  exemplary  Bible-class  scholars  in  the  city,  went  to  a 
Baptist  sociable  out  on  West  Hill  one  night  about  two  years  ago. 
He  escorted  three  charming  girls,  with  angelic  countenances  and 
human  appetites,  out  to  the  refreshment  table,  let  them  eat  all  they 
wanted,  and  then  found  he  had  left  his  pocketbook  at  home,  and  a 
deaf  man  that  he  had  never  seen  before  at  the  cashier's  desk.  The 
young  man,  with  his  face  aflame,  bent  down  and  said  softly, 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  no  change  with — " 

"Hey?"  shouted  the  cashier. 

"I  regret  to  say,"  the  young  man  repeated  on  a  little  louder  key, 
"that  I  have  unfortunately  come  away  without  any  change  to — " 

"Change  two?"  chirped  the  old  man.  "Oh,  yes,  I  can  change  five 
if  you  want  it." 

"No,"  the  young  man  explained  in  a  terrible,  penetrating  whisper,  for 
half-a-dozen  people  were  crowding  up  behind  him,  impatient  to  pay 
their  bills  and  get  away,  "I  don't  want  any  change,  because — " 

"Oh,  don't  want  no  change?"  the  deaf  man  cried,  gleefully.  "'Bleeged 
to  ye,  'bleeged  to  ye.  'Tain't  often  we  get  such  generous  donations. 
Pass  over  your  bill." 

"No,  no,"  the  young  man  explained,  "I  have  no  funds — " 

"Oh,  yes,  plenty  of  fun,"  the  deaf  man  replied,  growing  tired  of  the 
conversation  and  noticing  the  long  line  of  people  waiting  with  money 
in  their  hands,  "but  I  haven't  got  time  to  talk  about  it  now.  Settle 
and  move  on." 


158  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"But,"  the  young  man  gasped  out,  "I  have  no  money — " 
"Go  Monday?"  queried  the  deaf  cashier.     "I  don't  care  when  you 
go;  you  must  pay  and  let  these  other  people  come  up." 

"I  have  no  money!"  the  mortified  young  man  shouted,  ready  to  sink 
into  the  earth,  while  the  people  all  around  him,  and  especially  the 
three  girls  he  had  treated,  were  giggling  and  chuckling  audibly. 
"Owe  money?"  the  cashier  said,  "of  course  you  do;  $2.75." 
"I  can't  pay!"  the  youth  screamed,  and  by  turning  his  pocket  inside 
out  and  yelling  his  poverty  to  the  heavens,  he  finally  made  the  deaf 
man  understand.  And  then  he  had  to  shriek  his  full  name  three  times, 
while  his  ears  fairly  rang  with  the  half-stifled  laughter  that  was  break- 
ing out  all  around  him;  and  he  had  to  scream  out  where  he  worked, 
and  roar  when  he  would  pay,  and  he  couldn't  get  the  deaf  man  to 
understand  him  until  some  of  the  church  members  came  up  to  see 
what  the  uproar  was,  and  recognizing  their  young  friend,  made  it  all 
right  with  the  cashier.  And  the  young  man  went  out  into  the  night 
and  clubbed  himself,  and  shred  his  locks  away  until  he  was  bald  as 
an  egg. 

SODDING  AS  A  FINE  ART 
By  Robert  J.  Burdette 

One  day,  early  in  the  spring,  Mr.  Blosberg,  who  lives  out  on  Ninth 
Street,  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  sod  his  front  yard  himself, 
and  when  he  had  formed  this  public-spirited  resolution,  he  proceeded 
to  put  it  into  immediate  execution.  He  cut  his  sod,  in  righteous  and 
independent  and  liberty-loving  disregard  of  the  ridiculous  city  or- 
dinance in  relation  thereto,  from  the  patches  of  verdure  that  the  cows 
had  permitted  to  obtain  a  temporary  growth  along  the  side  of  the 
street,  and  proceeded  to  beautify  his  front  yard  therewith.  Just  as  he 
had  laid  the  first  sod,  Mr.  Thwackery,  his  next  door  neighbor,  passed 
by. 

"Good  land,  Blosberg,"  he  shouted,  "you'll  never  be  able  to  make 
anything  of  such  a  sod  as  that.  Why,  it's  three  inches  too  thick.  That 
sod  will  qake  up  and  dry  like  a  brick.  You  want  to  shave  at  least 
two  inches  and  a  half  off  the  bottom  of  it,  so  the  roots  of  the  grass 
will  grow  into  the  ground  and  unite  the  sod  with  the  earth.  That 
sod  is  thick  enough  for  a  corner  stone." 

So  Mr.  Blosberg  took  the  spade  and  shaved  the  sod  down  until  it 
was  thin  and  about  as  pliable  as  a  buckwheat  cake,  and  Mr.  Thwackery 


HUMOROUS  159 

pronounced  it  all  right  and  sure  to  grow,  and  passed  on.  Just  as  Mr. 
Blosberg  got  it  laid  down  the  second  time,  old  Mr.  Templeton,  who 
lived  on  the  next  block,  came  along  and  leaned  on  the  fence,  intently 
observing  the  sodder's  movements. 

"Well,  now,  Blosberg,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  did  think  you  had 
better  sense  than  that.  Don't  you  know  a  sod  will  never  grow  on 
that  hard  ground?  You  must  spade  it  all  up  first,  and  break  the 
dirt  up  fine  and  soft  to  the  depth  of  at  least  four  inches,  or  the  grass 
can  never  take  root  in  it.  Don't  waste  your  time  and  sod  by  putting 
grass  on  top  of  such  a  baked  brick-floor  as  that." 

And  Mr.  Blosberg  laid  aside  the  sod  and  took  up  the  spade  and 
labored  under  Mr.  Templeton's  directions  until  the  ground  was  all 
properly  prepared  for  the  sod,  and  then  Mr.  Templeton,  telling  him 
that  sod  couldn't  die  on  that  ground  now  if  he  tried  to  kill  it,  went 
his  way  and  Mr.  Blosberg  picked  up  that  precious  sod  a  third  time, 
and  prepared  to  put  it  in  its  place.  Before  he  had  fairly  poised  it 
over  the  spot,  however,  his  hands  were  arrested  by  a  terrific  shout, 
and  looking  up  he  saw  Major  Bladgers  shaking  his  cane  at  him  over 
the  fence. 

"Blosberg,  you  insufferable  donkey,"  roared  the  Major,  "don't  you 
know  that  you'll  lose  every  blade  of  grass  you  can  carry  if  you  put 
your  sod  on  that  dry  ground?  There  you've  gone  and  cut  it  so  thin 
that  all  the  roots  of  the  grass  are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  you  must 
soak  that  ground  with  water  until  it  is  a  perfect  pulp,  so  that  the 
roots  will  sink  right  into  it,  and  draw  nutrition  from  the  moist  earth. 
Wet  her  down,  Blosberg,  if  you  want  to  see  your  labor  result  in  any- 
thing." 

So  Mr.  Blosberg  put  the  sod  aside  again,  and  went  and  pumped 
water  and  carried  it  around  in  buckets  until  his  back  ached  like  a 
soft  corn,  and  when  he  had  finally  transformed  the  front  yard  into 
a  morass,  the  major  was  satisfied,  and  assuring  Mr.  Blosberg  that  his 
sod  would  grow  beautifully  now,  even  if  he  laid  it  on  upside  down, 
marched  away,  and  Mr.  Blosberg  made  a  fourth  effort  to  put  the 
first  sod  in  its  place.  He  got  it  down  and  was  going  back  after 
another,  when  old  Mrs.  Tweedlebug  checked  him  in  his  wild  career. 

"Lawk,  Mr.  Blosberg,  ye  mustn't  go  off  an'  leave  that  sod  lying  that 
way.  You  must  take  the  spade  and  beat  it  down  hard,  till  it  is  all  flat 
and  level,  and  close  to  the  ground  everywhere.  You  must  pound  it 
hard,  or  the  weeds  will  all  start  up  under  it  and  crowd  out  the  grass." 

Mr.  Blosberg  went  back,  and  stooping  over  the  sod  hit  it  a  resound- 
ing thwack  with  his  spade  that  shot  great  gouts  and  splotches  of  mud 


160  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

all  over  the  parlor  windows  and  half  way  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
some  of  it  came  flying  into  his  face  and  on  his  clothes,  while  a  miscel- 
laneous shower  made  it  dangerous  even  for  his  adviser,  who,  with  a 
feeble  shriek  of  disapprobation,  went  hastily  away,  digging  raw  mud 
out  of  her  ears.  Mr.  Blosberg  didn't  know  how  long  to  keep  on 
pounding,  and  he  didn't  see  Mrs.  Tweedlebug  go  away,  so  he  stood  with 
his  spade  poised  in  the  air  and  his  eyes  shut  tight,  waiting  for  instruc- 
tions. And  as  he  waited  he  was  surprised  to  hear  a  new  voice  accost 
him.  It  was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Thistlepod,  the  old  agriculturist,  of 
whom  Mr.  Blosberg  bought  his  apples  and  butter. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Blosberg!"  he  shouted,  in  tones  which  indicated  that  he 
either  believed  Mr.  Blosberg  to  be  stone  deaf  or  two  thousand  miles 
away. 

Mr.  Blosberg  winked  violently  to  get  the  soil  out  of  his  eyes,  and 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  noise  to  say,  "Good  evening." 

"Soddin',  hey?"  asked  Mr.  Thistlepod. 

"Trying  to,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Blosberg,  rather  cautiously. 

"'Spect  it  will  grow,  hey?" 

Mr.  Blosberg,  having  learned  by  very  recent  experience  how  liable 
his  plans  were  to  be  overthrown,  was  still  non-committal,  and  replied 
that  "he  hoped  so." 

"Wal,  if  ye  hope  so,  ye  mustn't  go  to  poundin'  yer  sod  to  pieces  with 
that  spade.  Ye  don't  want  to  ram  it  down  so  dad  binged  tight  and 
hard  there  can't  no  air  git  at  the  roots.  Ye  must  shake  that  sod  up  a 
little,  so  as  to  loosen  it,  and  then  jest  press  it  down  with  yer  foot 
ontil  it  jest  teches  the  ground  nicely  all  around.  Sod's  too  thin, 
anyhow." 

So  Mr.  Blosberg  thrust  his  hands  into  the  nasty  mud  under  his 
darling,  much  abused  sod,  and  spread  his  fingers  wide  apart  to  keep  it 
from  breaking  to  pieces  as  he  raised  it,  and  finally  got  it  loosened  up 
and  pressed  down  to  Mr.  Thistlepod's  satisfaction,  who  then  told  him 
he  didn't  believe  he  could  make  that  sod  grow  anyway,  and  drove  away. 
Then  Mr.  Blosberg  stepped  back  to  look  at  that  sod,  feeling  confident 
that  he  had  got  through  with  it,  when  young  Mr.  Simpson  came  along. 

"Hello,  Bios,  old  boy;  watchu  doin'?"  , 

Mr.  Blosberg  timorously  answered  that  he  was  sodding  a  little.  Then 
Mr.  Simpson  pressed  his  lips  very  tightly  together  to  repress  a  smile, 
and  let  his  cheeks  swell  and  bulge  out  to  the  size  of  toy  balloons  with 
suppressed  merriment,  and  finally  burst  into  a  snort  of  derisive  laugh- 
ter that  made  the  windows  rattle  in  the  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  he  went  on,  leaving  Mr.  Blosberg  somewhat  nettled  and  a 


HUMOROUS  161 

little  discouraged.  He  stood,  with  his  fingers  spread  wide  apart,  hold- 
ing his  arms  out  like  wings,  and  wondering  whether  he  had  better  go 
get  another  sod  or  go  wash  his  hands,  when  a  policeman  came  by,  and 
paused.     "Soddin'?"  he  asked,  sententiously. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little,"  replied  Mr.  Blosberg,  respectfully. 

"Where'd  you  get  your  sod?"  inquired  the  representative  of  public 
order. 

Mr.  Blosberg  dolefully  indicated  the  little  bare  parallelogram  in  the 
scanty  patch  of  verdure  as  his  base  of  supplies. 

"You're  the  man  I've  been  lookin'  for,"  replied  public  order.  "You 
come  along  with  me." 

And  Mr.  Blosberg  went  along,  and  the  Police  Judge  fined  him  $11.95, 
and  when  Mr.  Blosberg  got  home  he  found  that  a  cow  had  got  into  his 
yard  during  his  absence  and  stepped  on  that  precious  sod  five  times, 
and  put  her  foot  clear  through  it  every  time,  so  that  it  looked  like  a 
patch  of  moss  rolled  up  in  a  wad,  more  than  a  sod.  And  then  Mr. 
Blosberg  fell  on  his  knees  and  raised  his  hands  to  heaven,  and  regis- 
tered a  vow  that  he  would  never  plant  another  sod  if  this  whole  fer- 
tile world  turned  into  a  Sahara  for  want  of  his  aid. 

THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  LITTLE  IKE  TEMPLIN 

In  the  midst  of  his  supper  one  day  it  occurred*  to  little  Ike  to  resort 
to  the  well  for  a  drink  of  water.  In  time  his  mammy  grew  tired  of 
stopping  her  work  whenever  he  grew  thirsty  to  hand  him  down  a 
gourd  from  the  pail  which  rested  on  the  shelf  beyond  his  reach. 
Finally  she  said  to  him:  "Boy,  what  ails  you  anyhow?  G'long  out 
doors  an'  try  to  be  some  use  to  somebody,  stid  of  eatin'  up  an'  drinkin' 
up  ev'yt'ing  Mis's  got  on  her  plantash'n." 

Little  Ike,  thus  driven  out,  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  door  and 
looked  at  the  well,  which  was  a  few  rods  distant.  But  he  turned  his 
back  upon  it  instantly,  as  if  it  were  too  painful  to  be  thus  reminded  of 
the  source  of  his  most  recent  disappointment,  and  began  walking  in 
the  opposite  direction.  When  he  had  reached  a  spot  on  the  line  with 
the  end  of  the  kitchen,  he  filed  to  the  left  and  again  to  the  left  when 
he  had  reached  the  rear  side ;  and  pursuing  this  line  until  he  had  gone 
some  distance  beyond  the  well,  turned  again  and  came  to  the  latter. 
Stepping  upon  a  hewn  log  which  lay  there  to  enable  young  drawers  of 
water  to  manage  the  bucket,  he  was  pleased  to  find  this  utensil  as  it 
was  resting  upon  the  ledge,  half  full  of  water.  Conscious  that  the 
time  was   short,  he  clambered  up  to  the   edge,   got  upon   all   fours, 


162  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

grabbed  with  one  hand  the  rim  of  the  bucket,  and  with  the  other  hand 
the  well-rope,  and,  first  taking  an  anxious  glance  toward  the  kitchen 
and  a  fond  one  toward  the  contents  of  the  bucket,  plunged  in  his  head. 
He  had  hardly  taken  a  few  sips  when  the  call  of  his  mother  at  its 
accustomed  pitch  sounded  from  the  kitchen. 

And  here  I  find  myself  under  the  painful  necessity  of  recording  a 
most  terrible  scene.  I  suppose  it  will  never  be  known  precisely  how 
it  happened,  although  no  one,  as  well  as  I  remember,  ever  suspected 
little  Ike  of  a  deliberate  intention  to  commit  the  awful  crime  of  suicide. 
It  may  have  been  that  he  had  not  known  the  use  of  his  legs  long 
enough  for  the  present  extreme  need,  and  that  his  knees  may  have 
given  a  tilt  to  the  bucket.  At  all  events  down  they  went  together  to 
the  bottom,  a  distance  of  thirty  feet. 

The  mother,  who  had  seen  him  at  the  moment  when  the  descent 
began,  ran,  half  shrieking  to  the  well,  where  she  was  joined  by  Mrs. 
Templin  a  moment  after. 

"Oh,  Mis's,  Mis's,  my  po'  ophing  chile  have  fell  in  de  well  and  broke 
his  naik,  and  drown  hese'f  on  top  o'  that,  an'  he  my  precious  baby— 
an'  de  las'  one  I  got !" 

Mrs.  Templin  said:  "I'm  sorry  for  you,  Judy.  But  maybe  he  has 
been  mercifully  saved  from  drowning.  Lean  over  and  look  down  as 
I  turn  the  windlass." 

After  a  few  turns,  she  knew  by  the  feeling  that  the  bucket  had  risen 
to  the  surface  of  the  water,  which  was  some  four  feet  deep. 

"Now  call  him,"  she  said. 

"Li'll  Ikyl     Li'll  Iky!"  shouted  Judy. 

"Ma-a-a-a-me  1"  came  a  sharp,  plaintive  answer  from  the  great  deep. 

"Is  you  down  dar,  precious?" 

"Eth,  e-e-eth,  'm." 

"Well,  well,  is  you  drownded?" 

"No — no — no,  'ml" 

"Well,  well !     Is  you  done  gone  all  to  pieces  ?" 

"No — n-n-no,  'ml" 

"Is  anything  de  matter  wid  mammy's  precious  boy  baby?" 

"I  k-k-k-co-co-o-ld !" 

"Well,  well,  where  is  you  now?" 

"In — in  de — b-b-bucket !" 

Mrs.  Templin  then  directed  the  mother  to  urge  the  child  to  hold  fast 
to  the  rope  while  she  herself  would  turn  the  windlass. 

"Dar  now,  you  heah  dat?  Mis's  say  she  wan'  my  nice  li'll  darky  to 
ketch  tight  hold  to  der  rope — tight  as  a  tick;  an'  she  say  she  gwine 


HUMOROUS  163 

draw  him  up  with  her  own  blessed  hands.  Mis's  say  she  can't  'ford  to 
lose  likely  li'll  fellow  like  my  li'll  Ike,  dat  she  can't.  Ye  heah, 
mammy's  precious  suga'  lump?" 

"E-e-e-e-th,  'm  1" 

The  winding  began,  and  the  mother,  being  urged  to  encourage  Ike 
as  much  as  possible  during  the  ascent,  did  as  well  as  she  could  by  such 
cheering  remarks  as  these : 

"Jes'  look  at  dat!  Mis's  givin'  her  li'll  niggah  such  a  nice  ride! 
En  Mis's  done  tole  mammy  tah  kill  six  chickens,  an'  fry  one  o'm  an' 
brile  one  o'm  an'  make  pie  out  of  de  rest,  an'  all  for  li'll  Iky's  dinner ; 
an'  she  say  she  gwine  make  daddy  barb'cue  two  pigs  dis  very  evenin', 
and  nobody  ain't  to  tech  a  mou'f'l  on'm  cep'n  li'll  Iky  if  he'll  holt  on 
tah  de  well-rope.  An'  she  say,  Mis's  do,  she  jes'  know  her  great  big 
li'll  Ike  ain't  gwine  to  let  dat  rope  loose  an'  not  get  all  dem  goodies !" 

It  is  possible  that  in  so  brief  a  time  never  was  promised  a  greater 
number  of  luxuries  to  a  child  born  to  loftiest  estate.  Chickens,  ducks 
— indeed  the  whole  poultry  yard  was  more  than  exhausted;  every  pig 
on  the  plantation  was  done  to  a  turn.  During  the  ascent  little  Ike  was 
informed  that  eatables  of  every  description  would  be  at  his  disposal 
forever.  The  time  does  not  suffice  to  tell  of  other  rewards  promised 
in  the  name  of  the  munificent  mistress,  in  the  way  of  cakes,  pies,  syl- 
labubs, gold  and  silver  and  costly  apparel.  All  this  while,  Mrs.  Tem- 
plin,  without  uttering  a  word,  turned  the  windlass,  slowly,  steadily. 

When  the  bucket  with  its  contents  reached  the  top,  and  was  safely 
lodged  upon  the  ledge,  the  mother  seized  her  precious  darling,  his 
teeth  chattering  the  while  with  chill,  and  dragging  him  fiercely  forth, 
said  in  wrathful  tones : 

"A  cold  is  yah?  Well,  ef  I  be  bressed  wid  strength  an*  ef  dey  is 
peachy  trees  'nought  in  de  orchard,  an'  de  fence  corners,  I'll  wa'm  yah. 
You  dat  has  sceert  me  intah  fits,  an'  made  me  tell  all  dem  lies — dem 
on  Mis's — dat  I  jes'  knows  I  never  ken  git  fahgivin'  fo'  'em."  And, 
still  holding  him,  she  began  striding  toward  the  kitchen  door. 

"Judy!"  called  her  mistress  sternly,  "Judy,  put  down  that  child  this 
minute!  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Instead  of  being  thankful 
that  he  wasn't  killed,  here  you  stand  and  are  so  angry  with  him  that 
you  look  as  though  you  wished  to  kill  him  yourself.  Now  take  him 
into  your  house  and  put  some  dry  clothes  on  him ;  then  send  him  to 
me  in  the  house,  where  I  will  have  some  coffee  ready  for  him.  And 
mind  you,  Judy,  if  you  lay  your  hands  on  that  child  in  anger,  that 
won't  be  the  last  of  it.  Do  for  goodness'  sake  try  to  learn  some  rea- 
son about  your  children." 


164  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Judy  led  him  away  sullenly,  and  in  spite  of  her  mistress's  warning, 
muttered  direful  threatenings,  louder  and  louder,  as  she  approached, 
ending  thus,  as,  having  clothed  him,  she  dispatched  him  to  the  big 
house: 

"Nevah  yah  min',  sah;  wait  till  Sunday  come,  when  Mis's  go  tah 
meetin',  an'  you'll  seel  An',  boy,  ef  yah  skeers  me  dat  way  ag'in,  I'll 
put  yah  whar  yah  won't  wan'  no  mo'  watah  an'  no  mo'  nothin'.  The 
idee!  people  all  talkin'  'bout  my  chile  gittin'  drowned  same  as  puppies 
an*  kittens  1  Ought  to  be  'shamed  o'  yourself!  I  is.  I  jes'  'spises  to 
look  at  yah  1    G'long  out  my  sight !" 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  while  little  Ike  was  in  the  big  house,  luxu- 
riating in  coffee,  biscuit  and  fried  chicken,  she  was  singing  in  cheerful 
voice  one  of  her  favorite  hymns : 

Nobody  knows  the  trouble  I  see,  Lord; 

Nobody  knows  the  trouble  I  see; 
Nobody  knows  the  trouble  I  see,  Lord ; 

Nobody  knows  like  Jesus. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HOE 

"Goliath  Johnsing,  why  you  so  late?  Supper  been  a  sp'ilin'  on  de 
stove  dis  half  hour/'  and  Aunt  Lucy  faced  her  liege  lord  with  stern 
dignity. 

"Old  Daddy  Moses  an'  me  been  a  havin'  it  out." 

"Havin'  what  out?  You  ain't  been  an'  had  a  fuss  wid  Mr.  Benson, 
'Liah  Johnsing?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  Ole  Skincher.  Here  I  have  been  a  hoein'  hard  in  the 
fiel'  all  day,  and  he  mean  enough  to  dock  my  wages  ten  cents  'cause  I 
warn't  back  at  noon  jest  at  de  minnit.  I  warn't  late  more'n  half  an 
hour  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour.    But  I  give  him  piece  of  my  mind." 

"I  s'pose  he  don'  want  to  pay  for  work  he  don'  git." 

"Don'  git?  Why,  thar  was  Sam  Stevens  an'  Bill  Jenkins;  they  talk 
more'n  half  de  time,  an'  rested  on  they  handles  more'n  t'other  half, 
an'  did  he  dock  them  any?  Not  he.  He  got  spite  'gin  me,  I  know 
dat" 

"Whar'd  you  git  dat  new  hoe?"  queried  Aunt  Lucy,  as  'Liah  hung 
that  implement  up  in  the  woodshed. 

"Neber  you  mind.  Women  always  want  to  stick  their  nose  into 
ebbert'ing." 


HUMOROUS  165 

"An'  what  you  done  wid  your  ole  hoe  you  took  away  this  noon? 
You  didn't  trade  that  off  for  a  new  one?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  'f  ye  will  know." 

"'Liah  Johnsing,"  blurted  out  Aunt  Lucy,  as  a  sudden  suspicion 
flamed  in  her  eyes,  "dat  ain't  one  of  Moses  Benson's  hoes?  You  ain't 
gone  and  changed  off  yo'  ole  hoe  for  one  his'n,  I  hope?  You  wouldn't 
do  dat,  if  he  is  a  skincher,  an'  you  a  member  ob  de  church,  'Liah  John- 
sing?" 

"Mis'  Johnsing,  you  jes'  ten'  to  yo'  own  bus'ness.  Don'  you  let  me 
hear  not  one  mo'  word  'bout  dat  hoe." 

Suddenly,  as  bedtime  drew  near,  'Liah  rose  and  went  into  the  house, 
saying  as  he  went : 

"Got  to  go  down  to  de  sto',  Lucy.  I  forgot  I  got  to  mow  Daw- 
kinses  fiel'  to-morrow,  an'  my  whetstun's  clear  down  to  de  bone,  an* 
I've  got  to  start  off  to-morrow  'fore  sto's  open." 

'Liah  had  been  gone  hardly  a  minute,  when  Aunt  Lucy  called  in  a 
tragic  whisper  to  Paul,  her  oldest  boy,  six  years  of  age. 

"You  Paul,  come  here  quick,  by  yo'self." 

Paul,  used  to  obeying,  came  promptly,  and  was  drawn  close  up  to 
his  mother  on  the  settee.  "Now,  you  Paul,  I  wonder  kin  I  trust  you 
to  do  something  for  me?" 

Paul,  somewhat  disturbed,  kept  discreetly  silent. 

"I  wish  you's  a  little  bigger,  but  de  Lord  will  hoi'  you  up.  Paul, 
you  listen.  When  yo'  paw  comes  home  from  the  sto'  an'  we's  all  gone 
to  bed  and  got  to  sleep — you  hearin',  Paul?" 

"Yes'm." 

"You  get  up  still's  a  mouse,  an'  you  go  git  dat  hoe  yo'  paw  brought 
home,  an'  don't  you  make  no  noise  takin'  it  down,  an'  you  kerry  dat 
hoe  ober  to  Mr.  Benson's;  an'  you  take  de  hoe  what's  hangin'  dar — 
dat's  our  hoe,  Paul,  dat  yo'  paw  left  dar  by  'stake — you  take  dat  hoe 
an'  bring  it  in  the  woodshed,  an'  don't  you  nebber  tell  yo'  paw  nothin' 
'bout  it." 

The  first  sun  rays  were  shining  in  at  the  window  through  the 
morning-glories,  the  early  breakfast  was  smoking  on  the  table,  the  six 
young  Johnsons  were  struggling  down  in  various  stages  of  sleepiness, 
Aunt  Lucy  was  bending  over  the  stove  and  'Liah  washing  at  the  sink, 
when  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at  the  kitchen  door,  which,  being  open, 
disclosed  Mr.  Benson.  By  his  side  stood  the  village  constable.  In  his 
hand  was  an  old  and  much  battered  hoe.  'Liah  saw  the  hoe  and  his 
upper  jaw  fell.    Aunt  Lucy's  gaze  also  was  riveted  on  it 


166  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Goliah  Johnson,"  said  the  constable,  "you're  my  prisoner.  You 
stole  Mr.  Benson's  hoe." 

"'Fore  de  Lord,  Mr.  Benson,  I  ain't  got  yo'  hoe.  What  you  doin' 
wid  mine?" 

"You  needn't  pretend  that  you  left  your  old  hoe  in  my  barn  yesterday 
by  mistake,  'Liah  Johnson,"  burst  in  Mr.  Benson,  "as  if  you  couldn't 
tell  this  old  thing  from  my  hoe.  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  your- 
self?" 

"You  may  search  dis  place,  Mr.  Benson,  from  top  to  bottom  an'  side 
to  side,  an'  you  won't  find  no  stiver  of  yo'  old  hoe.  How  you  got 
mine  I  'clare  I  give  up,  but  you  kin  see  fo'  yourself.  Now,  here's 
where  I  keeps  my  hoe,"  and  'Liah  swung  open  the  woodshed  door. 

There  hung  Mr.  Benson's  new  hoe. 

"You  Paul !"  fairly  shouted  Aunt  Lucy,  pouncing  on  her  young  hope- 
ful, "what  did  you  do  las'  night?" 

"Did  jist  what  you  tol'  me.  Took  back  dat  hoe  an'  changed  it  for  de 
one  in  Mr.  Benson's  barn." 

"Took  back  what  hoe?"  shouted  'Liah  in  his  turn.  "Lucy  Johnsing, 
what  you  been  stickin'  yo'  fingers  in?" 

"Well,  'Liah,  I  'lowed  I  warn't  gwine  to  have  no  hoe  in  dis  house 
what  didn't  b'long  to  us  by  rights,  'n'  so  I  tol'  Paul  to  get  up  las' 
night  an'  change  de  hoes  back  again,  an'  if  he  did  it,  how  dis  one 
comes  heah  beats  me." 

"You  Lucy  Johnsing,  see  what  you's  been  an'  done  wid  yo'  med- 
dlin'.  I  took  back  dat  hoe  'fore  I  went  to  bed,  when  I  made  's 
though  I  was  gettin'  de  whetstun,  an'  then  you  went  and  changed  'em 
back  ag'in." 

"  'Liah  Johnsing,  why  you  keep  secrets  from  yo'  wedded  wife?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  'bout  dat?" 

By  this  time  Mr.  Benson  saw  that  there  was  something  more  in  the 
matter  than  he  supposed,  and  sending  away  the  constable  he  got  from 
the  worthy  couple,  with  much  circumlocution,  the  story  of  the  night's 
mistakes.  Being  a  man  with  some  sense  of  humor,  he  was  quite  mol- 
lified by  the  comicalities  of  the  situation,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
take  breakfast  with  the  Johnsons. 

"An'  after  dis,  'Liah  Johnsing,"  was  Aunt  Lucy's  moral,  "you'd  bet- 
ter think  twice  'fore  you  keep  any  mo'  secrets  from  yo'  lawful  wedded 
wifel" 


PATHETIC  SELECTIONS 

WHEN  THE  LITTLE  LADY  FELL  ILL/ 

Anonymous 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  there  was  a  little  lady,  gentle  and  sweet.  One 
day  she  sent  for  the  doctor.  She  was  ill.  She  lay  upon  her  bed  with 
her  bronze  hair  afloat  upon  the  pillow.  She  smiled  as  the  doctor  came 
in  and  held  out  a  hand  tiny  and  soft  and  very  white.  Her  teeth  shone 
between  her  crimson  lips  and  there  were  beautiful  violet  lights  in  her 
brown  eyes.  She  was  always  full  of  life  and  spirit.  Now  here  she 
was  in  bed  and  sending  for  the  doctor,  she  who  had  almost  never  before 
needed  a  doctor.  A  great  operation  was  decided  upon.  She  only  asked 
how  long  she  would  be  out  of  the  sun.  They  thought  the  operation 
would  heal.  But  it  did  not — and  there  was  another  and  another.  For 
a  little  while  after  each  operation  she  did  get  back  to  the  sun  and  was 
very  happy,  just  as  a  butterfly  might  be. 

But  at  last  they  who  watched  knew  that  the  frail  little  body  could 
not  withstand  another  operation  and  that  the  end  was  near — very  near. 
Then  came  the  fourteenth  day  of  December,  when,  they  told  the  young 
doctor,  it  was  his  duty  to  tell  the  little  butterfly.  That  night  he  walked 
the  streets — all  the  long  night.  It  rained.  But  he  did  not  feel  it.  In 
the  morning  he  understood  why  some  must  die,  for  in  the  rain  and  the 
night  he  had  unconsciously  been  with  the  God  who  gives  and  who  takes 
away.  He  went,  gaunt  with  the  night's  agony,  but  smiling,  and  took 
the  two  little  hands  into  his. 

"Did  you  ever  wonder,"  he  asked  her,  "as  I  have,  why  God  gives 
life  only  to  take  it  away?" 

"Just  for  love,"  she  smiled.     "He  wants  the  best  Himself." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  very  ill?" 

"Am  I  ?"  she  said,  suddenly  turning  her  great,  startled  eyes  upon  him, 

167 


168  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Haven't  you  noticed,"  he  tried  to  go  on,  "that  you — " 

"No,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "You  said  I  would  get  well — always 
said  it.     And  I  knew  that  you  knew,  and  I  trusted  you." 

"Doctors  must  do  those  things,"  he  pleaded,  "because  it  keeps  up  the 
patient's  courage.     There  is  no  medicine  like  hope." 

"I  have  never  thought  till  now,"  she  halted,  "that  I  would  not  get 
well." 

"I  have  known  it  for  a  long  time." 

"And  you  have  been  so  sweet  and  brave  so  as  to — " 

"No,  I  have  deceived  you  only  that  you  might  live  a  little  longer." 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Then  she  reached  out  and 
touched  his  hand. 

"Then  you  mean,"  she  whispered,  "that — " 

He  closed  her  lips,  and  she  understood. 

"Poor  doctor  1  It  is  dreadful  to  make  you  the  bearer  of  such  a 
message."  She  thought  silently  a  long  while.  "At  first  I  was  inclined 
to  be  cross  at  you  for  deceiving  me.  But  now — "  a  tear  presently  stole 
down  each  pale  young  cheek  " — but  now,"  she  ended  in  a  whisper,  "it 
is  wonderful — beautiful — very,  very  beautiful !  One  can  hardly  believe 
that  there  are  people  who  willingly  bear  the  sorrows  of  others." 

"I  have  been  only  selfish,  I  wanted  to  keep  you." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "I  understand." 

"How  long?" 

"Only  a  few  days,  perhaps  a  week — two  weeks." 

"No,"  she  cried  suddenly,  "for  that  is  Christmas.  And  the  house  will 
be  sad — in  mourning.  No !  You  must  make  me  live.  You  must  make 
them  think  I  am  getting  well." 

"Ah,  if  we  only  could!  But  I  must  not  deceive  you  any  longer.  I 
said  two  weeks — but  it  will  not  be  that  long." 

"It  will — it  must  be!"  she  said,  suddenly  rising  in  bed.  "We  will 
pray  God,  and  you  will  help,  and  I  will.  There  must  be  some  sort  of 
tonic — a  stimulant — tell  me — tell  me  there  is  1  You  must  not  spoil 
their  Christmas — on — on  my  account !" 

She  smiled  a  little  at  the  odd  ending  of  her  phrase  and  dropped  back 
upon  the  pillow,  flushed  and  brilliant,  splendid,  so  that  even  the  doctor 
was  deceived,  and  hoped. 

"If  you  can  do  that — keep  up  such  a  vigor  by  hope  and  happiness,  the 
hope  of  happiness  for  others — perhaps,  with  God's  help,  we  can — do 
what  you  wish." 

"Of  course  we  can.     I  know  it !" 

"Then  so  do  I,  and  you  shall  have  the  uttermost  minute," 


PATHETIC  169 

"And  when  it  is  done," — the  young  spirit  weakened, — "this,  which 
you  gave  me  so  long  ago,  shall  be  yours  again — for  a  memory!" 

She  put  his  hand  upon  the  ring  which  fitted  her  middle  finger. 

"A  memory?"  he  whispered. 

"Of  the  bravest  and  sweetest  man  in  the  world,"  she  said,  putting  a 
kiss  upon  the  ring.     "Oh !  but  I  don't  want  to  go." 

She  was  so  wonderful — with  such  a  tremendous  spirit  in  that  brave 
little  body.    The  doctor  thought  she  might  even  then  get  we'll. 

And  when  he  came  again,  she  did  seem  well — quite  well.  Her  cheeks 
were  pink,  her  lips  crimson,  her  hair  was  coiled  and  dressed.  She 
smiled  and  said  :     "Paint !" 

But  the  trick  had  deceived  her  family  even  more  than  it  had  de- 
ceived the  doctor.  For,  one  by  one  they  came  in  and,  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  seeing  the  pretty  little  painted  creature,  they  were  sure 
that  she  was  getting  better  rapidly — was,  in  fact,  almost  well!  Her 
younger  sister  romped  in  and  leaped  upon  the  bed,  crying:  "See, 
doctor!  It  is  all  as  it  used  to  be!  And  it  has  been  so  long  since  it 
was  all  as  it  used  to  be.  Dearest,  soon  we  will  be  out  on  Saint 
George's  Hill  again,  rolling  together  on  the  grass,  down,  down 
and—" 

"Yes,"  cooed  the  little  patient  rapturously,  "soon — very  soon — ." 
But  a  sudden  sob  ended  the  incident. 

"Thank  you — oh!  thank  you  so  much,  doctor,  dear,  for  giving  back 
to  me  the  sweetest  sister  in  all,  all  the  whole  world !" 

Day  by  day  more  paint  was  required  to  cover  the  growing  pallor,  and 
always  more  and  more.  And  always  more  drugs  to  keep  the  eyes 
bright  and  the  spirits  from  flagging.  When  the  young  doctor  wasn't 
by  her  side  he  was  studying — searching — until  there  was  nothing  in  all 
medical  science  for  prolonging  life  which  he  did  not  know. 

The  house  became  gay  again  because  of  the  lie  that  was  practiced. 
The  noises  which  had  been  hushed  when  there  was  danger  were 
resumed. 

There  was  at  last  a  day  when  the  doctor  helped  at  the  dressing  and 
painting;  so  near  was  the  shadow  that  she  might  have  flown  at  a 
breath. 

And  so  they  put  upon  her,  lying  in  their  hands,  wonderful  garments 
and  ribbons  and  embroideries.  And  even  the  little  hands  on  that  day 
had  to  be  carefully  "made  up"  to  conceal  the  livid  blue.  Then  when 
all  was  ready,  they  sat  her  royally  up  in  bed,  lighted  the  candles,  closed 
the  blinds  and  let  the  waiting  family  enter — for  it  was  the  day  before 
Christmas, 


170  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

They  came  to  music — the  moment  the  door  was  opened — bursting 
with  joy.     A  processional  they  made  of  it  I 

"Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah, 
Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land; 
I  am  weak,  but  Thou  art  mighty; 
Hold  me  with  Thy  powerful  hand." 

Standing  about  her  bed  they  sang  that,  and  each  separate  heart  was 
welling  a  song  of  joy,  because  they  thought  she  had  come  back  to  them ! 

Like  those  great  ladies  at  Versailles,  in  the  reign  of  the  Grand 
Monarch,  who  received  in  bed,  she  laughed,  happy  as  the  happiest  of 
them. 

Then  came  another  procession,  down  to  the  last  servant  in  the  house, 
bearing  gifts.  Then  flowers  and  green  things — until  the  beautiful  rose- 
embroidered  covering  of  her  bed  was  lost  to  sight  under  the  load  of 
flowers,  and  these  in  turn  were  blotted  out  with  the  gifts.  Wonderful 
gifts  they  were!  How  could  they  not  be?  They  were  welcoming  with 
them  their  best  beloved  back  to  life !  On  her  neck  was  girded  a  chain, 
on  her  fingers  were  put  rings,  and  in  her  ears  were  hung  gems,  so  that 
she  blazed  with  jewels.  Before  her  lay  a  splendid,  filmy  dress,  and 
with  it  were  hat  and  gloves  and  a  gay  parasol. 

All— all,  gifts  of  life! 

And  yet  another  procession  came,  bearing  holly  and  mistletoe  and 
garlands  and  crimson  berries,  and  last  of  all,  a  Christmas  tree,  all 
lighted  and  glowing  with  a  hundred  pretty  things.  And  almost  in  a 
moment  they  transformed  the  room  into  a  Christmas  bower.  The  bed, 
the  walls,  the  floor,  bloomed  in  the  red  and  white  and  green  of 
Christmas. 

So  Christmas  came — the  gayest,  the  maddest,  the  saddest  that  house 
had  ever  known. 

But  she  had  barely  carried  it  through,  and  when  the  excitement 
would  pass  the  doctor  knew  that  no  stimulant  devised  by  man  could 
keep  her  on  the  earth  she  had  blessed  an  hour  longer.  Before  the  col- 
lapse quite  came,  the  doctor  said: 

"My  patient  is  tired — " 

"A  little  tired,  yes,"  she  smiled  at  them.    "To-morrow." 

So  they  all  kissed  the  painted  lips  good-night  and,  wishing  her  a 
happy  to-morrow,  went  away. 

The  doctor  moved  to  take  the  heavy  gifts  off  the  bed.  She  stopped 
him  with  a  tired  smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  It  was  all  she  could 
do  just  then.    Life  was  very  low. 


PATHETIC  171 

"No,"  she  shook,  "I  want  them  all  just  as  they  are.    Mamma  said 
to-morrow — •"  she  halted. 
"Yes." 
"Poor  mamma !" 


O  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN! 
By  Walt  Whitman 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 
Here,  Captain,  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will  ; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won. 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 
-Written  as  a  funeral  poem  for  Lincoln,  and  one  of  the  great  poems 
of  the  nineteenth  century. 


172  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  FACE  OF  THE  MASTER 
By  Myrtle  Reed 

In  a  little  town  in  Italy  there  lived  an  old  violin-maker  whose  only 
pride  and  happiness  was  in  the  perfect  instruments  he  made.  He  had 
a  little  son  called  Pedro.  Pedro  was  a  dark  little  fellow  with  large, 
brown  eyes  which  seemed  to  hold  a  world  of  feeling  and  sometimes 
sadness.  He  loved  his  mother  dearly,  but  shrank  somewhat  from  his 
stern  father,  who  was  always  so  busy  he  hardly  noticed  him. 

Pedro  was  errand  boy  for  the  little  shop  and  tried  to  do  his  work 
patiently,  cheerfully  and  obediently.  One  day  an  unusually  fine  instru- 
ment had  been  finished  and  the  old  man,  in  his  joy  and  pride,  held  it 
in  position  and  touched  the  strings  softly  with  the  bow.  Pedro,  who 
was  sitting  outside  on  the  porch,  heard  the  music  and  came  running  in 
to  hear  it,  but  in  his  haste  he  did  not  see  an  exquisite  piece  of  carving 
on  the  floor  and  stepped  upon  it.  Crack!  it  broke  in  two.  Pedro's 
father  became  very  angry  and  pushed  him  into  his  little  bedroom  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

In  the  morning  Pedro's  father  called  him  very  early,  as  he  had  many 
errands  for  the  boy  to  do.  All  day  Pedro  trudged  wearily  back  and 
forth  for  his  father.  He  went  about  his  work  as  if  in  a  dream,  think- 
ing always  of  the  music  he  had  heard  and  wishing  with  all  his  heart 
that  he  might  play.  Night  was  coming  on  and  Pedro  was  sitting  on 
the  step  outside  resting,  when  his  father  told  him  he  had  yet  another 
errand  for  him  to  do.  Pedro  was  very  tired,  yet  he  did  not  say  any- 
thing but  went  immediately  on  the  errand.  When  he  had  delivered 
the  message,  the  man  showed  him  a  short  cut  home.  As  Pedro  was 
walking  slowly  home  he  stopped  suddenly  as  he  heard  the  sound  of 
music.  Could  it  be  a  violin?  He  listened  to  find  from  whence  it 
came.  At  last  he  decided  it  came  from  the  little*  .vine-covered  cottage 
across  the  lane.  He  walked  slowly  over  and  sat  down  under  the  open 
window.  The  music  was  exquisite.  As  he  listened  he  heard  the  soft 
wind  rustling  through  the  trees,  the  sound  of  birds  calling  to  one  an- 
other in  the  forest,  the  sound  of  rushing  water  as  that  of  a  river  as  it 
flowed  headlong  into  the  ocean. 

The  music  changed  as  he  listened;  he  heard  a  soft,  dreamy  lullaby, 
then  again  the  sound  of  the  ocean,  of  the  waves  beating  upon  the  sand. 
As  he  listened  the  music  grew  fainter,  the  moon  came  out  from  behind 
the  cloud  and  Pedro  saw  the  face  of  the  Master. 


PATHETIC  173 

He  was  a  bent  old  man  with  white  hair  and  beautiful  blue,  shining 
eyes.  As  the  music  ended  in  one  long,  sweet,  trembling  chord,  Pedro 
saw  the  Master  bend  his  head  over  his  violin,  and  as  he  quietly  slipped 
away  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing. 

Pedro  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  home  in  a  dream.  As  he  came 
into  the  work-shop  he  saw  the  beautiful  violin  and  .touched  it  tenderly, 
caressingly.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  play!  He  went  to  bed,  tut  could 
not  sleep.  The  beautiful  music  kept  coming  back  again  and  again.  At 
last  he  arose,  dressed  himself  and  went  into  the  work-shop.  He  picked 
up  the  violin  tenderly,  lovingly,  and  went  out  to  the  orchard  to  where 
a  little  brook  ran  merrily  by.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  calm  and 
peaceful,  a  soft  wind  whispered  through  the  trees,  through  the  still- 
ness the  sweet,  clear  notes  of  a  bird  were  heard.  The  witchery  of  the 
night,  its  calmness  and  quiet  beauty,  seemed  to  want  him  to  play.  So 
placing  the  violin  in  position*  *he  ran  the  bow  gently  over  the  strings; 
at  first  the  notes  were  short,  trembling,  and  broken.  Soon  it  became 
very  beautiful,  and  still  he  played  on  and  on.  He  did  not  notice  that 
day  was  dawning,  and  upon  looking  up  he  was  frightened  at  seeing  his 
father  standing  before  him.  But  his  father  smiled  at  him  and  said: 
"My  son,  you  are  then  a  musician?  The  music  was  wonderful I" 
Pedro  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"You  shall  have  lessons  from  the  Master,"  his  father  said.  Pedro 
could  hardly  believe  it.  Lessons  from  the  Master !  To  learn  to  play ! 
After  the  day's  work  was  done  Pedro  and  his  father  walked  down 
the  same  little,  narrow  street  to  the  little  vine-covered  cottage  that  he 
had  seen  the  night  before.  Soon  Pedro  found  himself  in  a  little  sit- 
ting-room awaiting  the  Master.  Soon  the  Master  came,  and  Pedro's 
father  said,  "If  you  will  teach  my  son  to  play  I  will  make  you  the 
most  beautiful  violin  in  the  world." 

The  Master  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  violin  and  he  did  not 
like  to  teach.  But  he  said  to  Pedro,  "Do  you  like  music?"  Pedro 
smiled,  his  whole  soul  in  his  eyes.  The  Master  said,  "Yes,  you  love 
it,  you  shall  play." 

The  next  day  Pedro  came  for  his  first  lesson.  He  enjoyed  it  very 
much  and  soon  mastered  the  tedious  exercises. 

So  the  years  passed  and  Pedro  had  become  famous.  The  Master 
was  growing  old;  still  the  most  beautiful  violin  had  not  been  com- 
pleted. One  day  Pedro  came  to  visit  the  Master  and  the  housekeeper 
told  him  he  was  ill.  Pedro  waited,  hoping  the  Master  might  want 
him.  Soon  he  returned  home  and  began  to  play.  While  he  was  play- 
ing his  father  told  him  that  the  Master's  violin  was  finished-     Pedro 


174  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

smiled  sadly  and  said,  "The  Master  is  ill."  That  evening  as  he  sat 
playing  a  messenger  came  and  summoned  him  to  the  Master's  house. 
He  took  the  finished  violin  with  him,  and  as  he  looked  into  the  Mas- 
ter's room  he  saw  him  lying  there  on  a  couch,  so  thin,  and  still,  and 
white.  He  smiled  as  Pedro  entered,  and  said,  "You  have  come  to  play 
for  me,  my  son?  The  night  is  so  long  and  I  am  so  tired.  Play, 
Pedro,  play!"  Pedro  showed  him  the  newly  finished  violin,  but  he 
only  smiled  as  he  nodded  for  Pedro  to  begin. 

Pedro  played,  and  played,  and  played.  In  the  music  he  interwove  all 
the  trials,  sorrows  and  happiness  of  his  childhood,  and  his  love  for  the 
Master.  A  soft  wind  rustled  through  the  trees,  the  sound  of  a  little 
brooklet  was  heard  and  the  birds  calling  to  one  another  in  the  forest. 
It  all  ended  with  one  trembling  chord.  When  he  had  finished  the 
Master  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  "Pedro,  where  did  you  learn  to  play 
that?" 

Pedro  smiled.  "You  taught  me,  Master.  I  always  knew  you  must 
have  had  some  sorrow  in  your  life  or  you  never  could  have  played  so 
exquisitely." 

The  Master  said:  "You  are  right."  And  then  he  told  him  of  his 
sorrowful  and  suffering  life.  "Play  it  again,  Pedro.  Now  you  under- 
stand." 

Pedro  played,  and  played,  and  played.  This  time  there  was  a  sweet- 
ness that  somehow  made  the  sad  strain  less  noticeable.  The  Master 
lay  looking  out  of  the  window;  day  was  breaking.  As  the  last  sweet, 
trembling  note  died  away,  Pedro  looked  into  the  face  of  the  Master. 
There  was  a  beautiful  smile  on  his  face.  For  the  Master  the  trials 
and  sorrows  of  the  world  were  over.  Pedro  knelt  down  before  the 
Master  and  kissed  the  thin,  white  hand  reverently,  the  hand  that  had 
made  so  many  sad  lives  happy  with  beautiful  music. 


VOICE  FROM  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

The  old  couple  were  very  lonely  as  they  sat  in  their  little  kitchen 
that  wintry  afternoon.  It  was  their  daughter's  birthday,  their  only 
child,  who  had  left  them  to  go  to  the  great,  glittering  world  on  the  far 
side  of  the  water.  There  she  had  won  fame  with  her  voice,  while 
they  had  stayed  behind  in  the  little  village  and  tried  to  be  cheerful 
without  her.  Usually  they  succeeded  pretty  well,  but  this  birthday,  of 
all  days  in  the  year,  was  the  hardest  to  bear ;  even  Christmas  was  not 


PATHETIC  175 

so  hard  as  this  birthday,  which  brought  so  vividly  to  their  minds  the 
memories  of  other  birthdays — the  first  one  when  the  baby's  coming 
had  found  them  awe-struck  with  the  joy  and  wonder  of  it  all,  and 
each  succeeding  year,  as  their  treasure  grew  to  girlhood  and  from  a 
girl  to  a  sweet  and  winning  woman,  then  faded  from  their  sight. 

They  had  not  seen  her  since,  for  money  was  scarce  and  time  val- 
uable. She  must  work  very  hard,  so  she  wrote  them.  The  old  couple 
tried  to  keep  up  a  conversation  as  they  sat  in  the  kitchen  that  wintry 
afternoon,  but  failed  miserably.  Finally  after  a  long  silence  the  old 
man  rose  and  said : 

"Guess  I'll  get  the  chores  done  before  it  storms,  mother.  Coming 
on  to  snow  fast." 

"All  right,  father,  I'll  have  supper  ready  for  you  when  you  come  in." 

"You  needn't  hurry  about  supper.  Guess  I'll  go  to  the  post-office 
after  I  get  the  critters  fed.     There  might  be  a  letter  from  Milly." 

"All  right,  father." 

There  was  a  new  note  in  the  woman's  voice,  for  this  was  just  what 
she  had  been  wishing  her  husband  to  do,  but  had  not  liked  to  have 
him  take  the  long  trip  to  the  post-office  with  the  weather  so  threatening. 

The  old  man  went  out,  and  the  woman  began  to  prepare  the  supper. 
Twilight  had  come  and  she  lighted  an  old-fashioned  lamp,  so  clean 
that  it  sparkled.  As  she  set  the  table  she  hummed  the  refrain  of  a 
lullaby,  a  little  song  she  had  often  crooned  when  her  arms  had  not 
been  empty. 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  letting  in  great  gusts  of  wintry  wind. 

"Hurry  and  get  that  door  shut,  Pa.    Warn't  there  no  letters?" 

"No,  but  there's  this." 

The  old  man  was  carrying  an  old  box  almost  too  large  for  him  to 
handle. 

"When  I  went  to  the  post-office  I  found  there  warn't  no  letter  and 
I  was  considerably  disappointed,  but  as  I  was  going  by  Jones's  store, 
Jones  he  comes  to  the  door  and  says  he,  'Say,  Si,  there's  a  box  in  here 
fer  youl'    'Fer  me?'  says  I. 

"  'It  come  this  afternoon  by  express,  and  I  guess  by  the  looks  of  it, 
it's  from  your  daughter  in  forin'  parts,'  said  he. 

"So  here  'tis,  and  now,  mother,  where's  the  hatchet?" 

The  hatchet  was  brought  and  the  box  was  opened. 

"My,  what  a  funny  lookin'  thing!  Looks  like  a  small  size  sewing 
machine,  and  here's  a  brass  horn,  too.  I  wonder  if  Milly  sent  that  for 
a  joke  or  what?" 


176  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Silas  set  the  carved  case  of  polished  wood  on  the  table,  and  the  old 
couple  gazed  in  puzzled  astonishment  at  what  they  saw  under  it. 
After  a  silence  the  old  man  said: 

"Perhaps  there  are  some  directions."  Going  over  to  the  box  he 
found,  as  he  had  prophesied,  a  paper  of  instructions. 

"It's  a— P-H-O-N-O-G-R-A-P-H,  and  them  there  things  air  records. 
Well,  I  know  about  as  much  as  I  did  afore.  I'll  follow  out  the  direc- 
tions and  see  what  happens.  Wish  I  knew  what  it  was ;  'tain't  no  kind 
of  a  farm  implement,  that's  sartin,  nor  a  potater  parer,  nor  sewing 
machine.    Well,  we'll  follow  these  rules  and  see  what  she  does." 

The  faces  of  the  old  couple  were  full  of  interest,  as  Silas  attached 
the  spring  and  set  the  phonograph  in  motion.  At  first  there  was  a 
peculiar  buzzing  sound,  but  nothing  unusual  happened,  and  the  old 
people  were  beginning  to  look  disappointed  when,  after  the  buzzing, 
came  the  sound  of  a  voice  singing.  Surprise,  wonder,  amazement, 
succeeded  each  other  on  the  old  faces,  as  the  first  notes  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home"  fell  on  their  startled  ears. 

"  'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam — " 

The  old  couple  listened  breathlessly. 

"Silas,  that's  Milly  singing." 

"No,  'tain't!" 

But  the  denial  died  on  his  lips  as  he  recognized  the  voice. 

"A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which  seek  through  the  world  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere." 

Clear  and  sweet  came  the  tones,  like  pearls  in  their  rounded  purity. 
The  mother  was  crying  bitterly. 

"An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain." 

These  words  came  with  ringing  force,  and  it  seemed  to  the  old  folks 
that  Milly,  far  away  in  Paris,  stretched  out  her  hands  to  them  across 
the  water. 

"Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home." 

The  old  man  was  crying  too,  but  the  tears  of  father  and  mother  were 
not  tears  of  sorrow,  for  the.  sting  had  gone  out  of  their  loneliness,  and 
as  the  music  ceased  peace  fell  like  a  mantle  on  the  little  country  home. 
— From  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal. 


PATHETIC  177 

LITTLE  BROTHER 
By  Madeleine  Z.  Doty 

A  TRUE  STORY 

It  was  a  warm  summer's  day  in  late  August.  No  men  were  visible 
in  the  Belgian  hamlet.  The  women  reaped  in  the  fields;  the  insects 
hummed  in  the  dry,  warm  air;  the  house-doors  stood  open.  On  a  bed 
in  a  room  in  one  of  the  cottages  lay  a  woman.  Beside  her  sat  a  small 
boy.  He  was  still,  but  alert,  his  eyes  following  the  buzzing  flies. 
With  a  bit  of  paper  he  drove  the  intruders  from  the  bed.  His  mother 
slept.     It  was  evident  from  the  pale,  drawn  face  that  she  was  ill. 

Suddenly  the  dreaming,  silent,  summer  day  was  broken  by  the  sound 
of  clattering  hoofs.     Some  one  was  riding  hurriedly  through  the  town. 

The  woman  moved  uneasily.  Her  eyes  opened.  She  smiled  at  the 
little  boy. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

The  boy  went  to  the  window.  Women  were  gathering  in  the  street. 
He  told  his  mother  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Her  eyes  grew  trou- 
bled.    In  a  few  minutes  the  child  was  back,  breathless  and  excited. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  the  Germans  are  coming!" 

The  woman  braced  herself  against  the  shock.  At  first  she  hardly 
grasped  the  news.  Then  her  face  whitened,  her  body  quivered  and 
became  convulsed.  Pain  sprang  to  her  eyes,  driving  out  fear;  beads 
of  perspiration  stood  on  her  forehead;  a  little  animal  cry  of  pain 
broke  from  her  lips.  The  boy  gazed  at  her  paralyzed,  horrified;  then 
he  flung  himself  down  beside  the  bed  and  seized  his  mother's  hand. 

"What  is  it,  mother,  what  is  it?" 

The  paroxysm  of  pain  passed;  the  woman's  body  relaxed,  her  hand 
reached  for  the  boy's  head  and  stroked  it.  "It's  all  right,  my  son." 
Then  as  the  pain  began  again,  "Quick,  sonny,  bring  auntie." 

The  boy  darted  from  the  room.    Auntie  was  the  woman-doctor  of 

B .    He  found  her  in  the  Square.    The  townspeople  were  wildly 

excited.  The  Germans  were  coming.  But  the  boy  thought  only  of 
his  mother.  He  tugged  at  auntie's  sleeve.  His  frenzied  efforts  at 
last  caught  her  attention.  She  saw  he  was  in  need  and  went  with 
him. 

Agonizing  little  moans  issued  from  the  house  as  they  entered.  In 
an  instant  the  midwife  understood.  She  wanted  to  send  the  boy  away, 
but  she  must  have  help.    Who  was  there  to  fetch  and  carry?    The 


178  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

neighbors,  terrified  at  their  danger,  were  making  plans  for  departure. 
She  let  the  boy  stay. 

Through  the  succeeding  hour  a  white-faced  little  boy  worked  man- 
fully. His  mother's  cries  wrung  his  childish  heart.  Why  did  babies 
come  this  way?  He  could  not  understand.  Would  she  die?  Had 
his  birth  given  such  pain?  If  only  she  could  speak!  And  once,  as  if 
realizing  his  necessity,  his  mother  did  speak. 

"It's  all  right,  my  son ;  it  will  soon  be  over." 

That  message  brought  comfort;  but  his  heart  failed  when  the  end 
came.  He  rushed  to  the  window  and  put  his  little  hands  tight  over 
his  ears.  It  was  only  for  a  moment.  He  was  needed.  His  mother's 
moans  had  ceased  and  a  baby's  cry  broke  the  stillness. 

The  drama  of  birth  passed,  the  midwife  grew  restless.  She  became 
conscious  of  the  outer  world.  There  were  high,  excited  voices ;  wag- 
ons clattered  over  stones ;  moving-day  had  descended  on  the  town.  She 
turned  to  the  window.  Neighbors  with  wheelbarrows  and  carts  piled 
high  with  household  possessions  hurried  by.     They  beckoned  to  her. 

For  a  moment  the  woman  hesitated.  She  looked  at  the  mother  on 
the  bed,  nestling  her  babe  to  her  breast ;  then  the  panic  of  the  outside 
world  seized  her.    Quickly  she  left  the  room. 

The  small  boy  knelt  at  his  mother's  bedside,  his  little  face  against 
hers.  Softly  he  kissed  the  pale  cheek.  The  boy's  heart  had  become  a 
man's.  He  tried  by  touch  and  look  to  speak  his  love,  his  sympathy, 
his  admiration.  His  mother  smiled  at  him  as  she  soothed  the  baby, 
glad  to  be  free  from  pain.  But  presently  the  shouts  and  disorder  of 
the  departing  townspeople  reached  her  ears.  She  stirred  uneasily. 
Fear  crept  into  her  eyes.     Passionately  she  strained  her  little  one  to  her. 

"How  soon,  little  son,  how  soon?" 

The  lad,  absorbed  in  his  mother,  had  forgotten  the  Germans.  With 
a  start  he  realized  the  danger.  His  new-born  manhood  took  command. 
His  father  was  at  the  front.  He  must  protect  his  mother  and  tiny 
sister.  His  mother  was  too  ill  to  move,  but  they  ought  to  get  away. 
Who  had  a  wagon?  He  hurried  to  the  window,  but  already  even  the 
stragglers  were  far  down  the  road.  All  but  three  of  the  horses  had 
been  sent  to  the  front.  Those  three  were  now  out  of  sight  with  their 
overloaded  wagons.  The  boy  stood  stupefied  and  helpless.  The 
woman  on  the  bed  stirred. 

"My  son,"  she  called.     "My  son  1" 

He  went  to  her. 

"You  must  leave  me  and  go  on." 

"I  can't,  mother." 


PATHETIC  179 

The  woman  drew  the  boy  down  beside  her.  She  knew  the  struggle 
to  come.  How  could  she  make  him  understand  that  his  life  and  the 
baby's  meant  more  to  her  than  her  own?  Lovingly  she  stroked  the 
soft  cheek.  It  was  a  grave,  determined  little  face  with  very  steady 
eyes. 

"Son,  dear,  think  of  little  sister.  The  Germans  won't  bother  with 
babies.  There  isn't  any  milk.  Mother  hasn't  any  for  her.  You  must 
take  baby  in  your  strong  little  arms  and  run — run  with  her  right  out 
of  this  land  into  Holland."' 

But  he  could  not  be  persuaded.  The  mother  understood  that  love 
and  a  s'ense  of  duty  held  him.  She  gathered  the  baby  in  her  arms  and 
tried  to  rise,  but  the  overtaxed  heart  failed,  and  she  fell  back  half- 
fainting.  The  boy  brought  water  and  bathed  her  head  until  the  tired 
eyes  opened. 

"Little  son,  it  will  kill  mother  if  you  don't  go." 

The  boy's  shoulders  shook.  He  knelt  by  the  bed.  A  sob  broke  from 
him.  Then  there  came  the  faint,  far-distant  call  of  the  bugle.  Fran- 
tically the  mother  gathered  up  her  baby  and  held  it  out  to  the  boy. 

"For  mother's  sake,  son,  for  mother." 

In  a  flash  the  boy  understood.  His  mother  had  risked  her  life  for 
the  tiny  sister.  She  wanted  the  baby  saved  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  He  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  He  wound  his  arms 
about  his  mother  in  a  long,  passionate  embrace. 

"I'll  take  her,  mother ;  I'll  get  her  there  safely." 

The  bugle  grew  louder.  Through  the  open  window  on  the  far- 
distant  road  could  be  seen  a  cloud  of  dust.  There  was  not  a  moment 
to  lose.  Stooping,  the  boy  caught  up  the  red,  squirming  baby.  Very 
tenderly  he  placed  the  little  body  against  his  breast  and  buttoned  his 
coat  over  his  burden. 

The  sound  of  marching  feet  could  now  be  heard.  Swiftly  he  ran  to 
the  door.  As  he  reached  the  threshold  he  turned.  His  mother,  her 
eyes  shining  with  love  and  hope,  was  waving  a  last  good-by.  Down 
the  stairs,  out  of  the  back  door,  and  across  the  'fields  sped  the  child. 
Over  grass  and  across  streams  flew  the  sure  little  feet.  His  heart 
tugged  fiercely  to  go  back,  but  that  look  in  his  mother's  face  sustained 
him. 

He  knew  the  road  to  Holland.  It  was  straight  to  the  north ;  but  he 
kept  to  the  fields.  He  didn't  want  the  baby  discovered.  Mile  after 
mile,  through  hour  after  hour,  he  pushed  on,  until  twilight  came.  He 
found  a  little  spring  and  drank  thirstily.  Then  he  moistened  the  baby's 
mouth.    The  little  creature  was  very  good.     Occasionally  she  uttered  a 


180  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

feeble  cry,  but  most  of  the  time  she  slept.  The  boy  was  intensely 
weary.  His  feet  ached.  He  sat  down  under  a  great  tree  and  leaned 
against  it.  Was  it  right  to  keep  a  baby  out  all  night?  Ought  he  to 
go  to  some  farmhouse?  If  he  did,  would  the  people  take  baby  away? 
His  mother  had  said,  "Run  straight  to  Holland."  But  Holland  was 
twenty  miles  away.  He  opened  his  coat  and  looked  at  the  tiny  crea- 
ture.    She  slept  peacefully. 

The  night  was  very  warm.  He  decided  to  remain  where  he  was. 
It  had  grown  dark.  The  trees  and  bushes  loomed  big.  His  heart  beat 
quickly.  He  was  glad  of  the  warm,  soft,  live  little  creature  in  his 
arms.  He  had  come  on  this  journey  for  his  mother,  but  suddenly  his 
boy's  heart  opened  to  the  tiny,  clinging  thing  at  his  breast.  His  little 
hand  stroked  the  baby  tenderly.  Then  he  stooped,  and  softly  his  lips 
touched  the  red,  wrinkled  face.  Presently  his  little  body  relaxed,  and 
he  slept.  He  had  walked  eight  miles.  Through  the  long  night  the 
deep  sleep  of  exhaustion  held  him.  He  lay  quite  motionless,  head  and 
shoulders  resting  against  the  tree-trunk,  and  the  new-born  babe  envel- 
oped in  the  warmth  of  his  body  and  arms  slept  also.  The  feeble  cry  of 
the  child  woke  him.  The  sun  was  coming  over  the  horizon  and  the 
air  was  alive  with  the  twitter  of  birds. 

At  first  he  thought  he  was  at  home  and  had  awakened  to  a  long 
happy  summer's  day.  Then  the  fretful  little  cries  brought  back  mem- 
ory with  a  rush.  His  new-born  love  flooded  him.  Tenderly  he  laid 
the  little  sister  down.  Stretching  his  stiff  and  aching  body,  he  hur- 
ried for  water.  Very  carefully  he  put  a  few  drops  in  the  little  mouth 
and  wet  the  baby's  lips  with  his  little  brown  finger.  This  proved 
soothing  and  the  cries  ceased.  The  tug  of  the  baby's  lips  on  his  fin- 
ger clutched  his  heart.  The  helpless  little  thing  was  hungry,  and  he 
too  was  desperately  hungry.  What  should  he  do?  His  mother  had 
spoken  of  milk.  He  must  get  milk.  Again  he  gathered  up  his  bur- 
den and  buttoned  his  coat.  From  the  rising  ground  on  which  he  stood 
he  could  see  a  farmhouse  with  smoke  issuing  from  its  chimney.  He 
hurried  down  to  the  friendly  open  door.  A  kind  woman  gave  him 
food.  She  recognized  him  as  a  little  refugee  bound  for  Holland.  He 
had  difficulty  in  concealing  the  baby,  but  fortunately  she  did  not  cry. 
The  woman  saw  that  he  carried  something,  but  when  he  asked  for 
milk  she  concluded  he  had  a  pet  kitten.  He  accepted  this  explanation. 
Eagerly  he  took  the  coveted  milk  and  started  on. 

But  day-old  babies  do  not  know  how  to  drink.  When  he  dropped 
milk  into  the  baby's  mouth  she  choked  and  sputtered.    He  had  to  be 


PATHETIC  181 

content  with  moistening  her  mouth  and  giving  her  a  milk-soaked  finger. 

Refreshed  by  sleep  and  food,  the  boy  set  off  briskly.  Holland  did 
not  now  seem  so  far  off.  If  only  his  mother  were  safe!  Had  the 
Germans  been  good  to  her?  These  thoughts  pursued  and  tormented 
him.  As  before,  he  kept  off  the  beaten  track,  making  his  way  through 
open  meadows  and  patches  of  trees.  But  as  the  day  advanced,  the  heat 
grew  intense.  His  feet  ached,  his  arms  ached,  and,  worst  of  all,  the 
baby  cried  fretfully. 

At  noon  he  came  to  a  little  brook  sheltered  by  trees.  He  sat  down 
on  the  bank  and  dangled  his  swollen  feet  in  the  cool,  fresh  stream. 
But  his  tiny  sister  still  cried.  Suddenly  a  thought  came  to  him.  Plac- 
ing the  baby  on  his  knees,  he  undid  the  towel  that  enveloped  her. 
There  had  been  no  time  for  clothes.  Then  he  dipped  a  dirty  pocket- 
handkerchief  in  the  brook  and  gently  sponged  the  hot,  restless  little 
body.  Very  tenderly  he  washed  the  little  arms  and  legs.  That  suc- 
cessfully accomplished,  he  turned  the  tiny  creature  and  bathed  the 
small  back.  Evidently  this  was  the  proper  treatment,  for  the  baby 
grew  quiet.  His  heart  swelled  with  pride.  Reverently  he  wrapped 
the  towel  around  the  naked  little  one  and,  administering  a  few  drops 
of  milk,  again  went  on. 

All  through  that  long,  hot  afternoon  he  toiled.  His  footsteps  grew 
slower  and  slower;  he  covered  diminishing  distances.  Frequently  he 
stopped  to  rest,  and  now  the  baby  had  begun  again  to  cry  fitfully.  At 
one  time  his  strength  failed.  Then  he  placed  the  baby  under  a  tree 
and  rising  on  his  knees  uttered  a  prayer : 

"O  God,  she's  such  a  little  thing,  help  me  to  get  her  there." 

Like  a  benediction  came  the  cool  breeze  of  the  sunset  hour,  bringing 
renewed  strength. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  a  wagon  stopped  before  a  Bel- 
gian refugee-camp  in  Holland.  Slowly  and  stiffly  a  small  boy  slid  to 
the  ground.  He  had  been  picked  up  just  over  the  border  by  a  friendly 
farmer  and  driven  to  camp.  He  was  dirty,  bedraggled  and  footsore. 
Very  kindly  the  ladies'  committee  received  him.  He  was  placed  at  the 
table  and  a  bowl  of  hot  soup  was  set  before  him.  He  ate  awkwardly 
with  his  left  hand.  His  right  hand  held  something  beneath  his  coat, 
which  he  never  for  a  moment  forgot.  The  women  tried  to  get  his 
story,  but  he  remained  strangely  silent.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the 
room  and  back  to  their  faces.  He  seemed  to  be  testing  them.  Not 
for  an  hour,  not  until  there  was  a  faint  stirring  in  his  coat,  did  he 


182  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

disclose  his  burden.  Then,  going  to  her  whom  he  had  chosen  as  most 
to  be  trusted,  he  opened  his  jacket.  In  a  dirty  towel  lay  a  naked,  mis- 
erably thin,  three-days'-old  baby. 

Mutely  holding  out  the  forlorn  object,  the  boy  begged  help.  Bit  by 
bit  they  got  his  story.  Hurriedly  a  Belgian  refugee  mother  was  sent 
for.  She  was  told  what  had  happened,  and  she  took  the  baby  to  her 
breast.  Jealously  the  boy  stood  guard  while  his  tiny  sister  had  her 
first  meal.     But  the  spark  of  life  was  very  low. 

For  two  days  the  camp  concentrated  on  the  tiny  creature.  The  boy 
never  left  his  sister's  side.  But  her  ordeal  had  been  too  great.  It 
was  only  a  feeble  flicker  of  life  at  best,  and  during  the  third  night  the 
little  flame  went  out.  The  boy  was  utterly  crushed.  He  had  now  but 
one  thought — to  reach  his  mother.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  the  news 
from  him  longer.  He  would  have  gone  in  search.  Gently  he  was  told 
of  the  skirmish  that  had  destroyed  the  Belgian  hamlet.  There  were 
no  houses  or  people  in  the  town  that  had  once  been  his  home. 

"That  is  his  story,"  ended  the  friendly  little  Dutch  woman. 

"And  his  father?"  I  inquired. 

"Killed  at  the  front,"  was  the  reply. 

I  rose  to  go,  but  could  not  get  the  boy  out  of  my  mind.  What  a 
world!  What  intolerable  suffering!  Was  there  no  way  out?  Then 
the  ever-recurring  phrase  of  the  French  and  Belgian  soldiers  came  to 
me.  When  I  had  shuddered  at  ghastly  wounds,  at  death,  at  innu- 
merable white  crosses  on  a  bloody  battlefield,  invariably,  in  dry,  cyni- 
cal, hopeless  tones,  the  soldier  would  make  the  one  comment, — 

"Cest  la  guerre;  que  voules-vous?" — "It  is  war;  what  would  you?" 


DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS 

BROWN  WOLF 
By  Jack  London 

The  Klondiker's  face  took  on  a  contemptuous  expression  as  he  said 
finally,  "I  reckon  there's  nothin'  in  sight  to  prevent  me  takin'  the  dog 
right  here  an'  now." 

Walt's  face  reddened,  and  the  striking-muscles  of  his  arms  and 
shoulders  seemed  to  stiffen  and  grow  tense.  His  wife  fluttered  appre- 
hensively into  the  breach. 

"Maybe  Mr.  Miller  is  right,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  that  he  is. 
Wolf  does  seem  to  know  him,  and  certainly  he  answers  to  the  name 
of  Brown.  He  made  friends  with  him  instantly,  and  you  know  that's 
something  he  never  did  with  anybody  before.  Besides,  look  at  the 
way  he  barked.  He  was  bursting  with  joy.  Joy  over  what?  With- 
out doubt  at  finding  Mr.  Miller." 

Walt's  striking-muscles  relaxed,  and  his  shoulders  seemed  to  droop 
with  hopelessness. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Madge,"  he  said.  "Wolf  isn't  Wolf,  but 
Brown,  and  he  must  belong  to  Mr.  Miller." 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Miller  will  sell  him?"  she  suggested.  "We  can  buy 
him." 

Skiff  Miller  shook  his  head,  no  longer  belligerent,  but  kindly,  quick 
to  be  generous  in  response  to  generousness. 

"I  had  five  dogs,"  he  said,  casting  about  for  the  easiest  way  to  tem- 
per his  refusal.  "He  was  the  leader.  They  was  the  crack  team  of 
Alaska.  Nothin'  could  touch  'em.  In  1898  I  refused  five  thousand 
dollars  for  the  bunch.  Dogs  was  high  then  anyway;  but  that  wasn't 
what  made  the  fancy  price.  It  was  the  team  itself.  Brown  was  the 
best  in  the  team.  That  winter  I  refused  twelve  hundred  for  him.  I 
didn't  sell  'm  then  an'  I  ain't  a-sellin'  'm  now.  Besides,  I  think  a 
mighty  lot  of  that  dog.    I've  ben  lookin'  for  'm  for  three  years.    It 

183 


184  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

made  me  fair  sick  when  I  found  he'd  ben  stole — not  the  value  of  him, 
but  the — well,  I  liked  'm.  I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I  seen  'm 
just  now.  I  thought  I  was  dreamin'.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true. 
Why,  I  was  his  wet-nurse.  I  put  'm  to  bed,  snug  every  night.  His 
mother  died,  and  I  brought  'm  up  on  condensed  milk  at  two  dollars  a 
can  when  I  couldn't  afford  it  in  my  own  coffee.  He  never  knew  any 
mother  but  me." 

Madge  began  to  speak: 

"But  the  dog,"  she  said.    "You  haven't  considered  the  dog." 

Skiff  Miller  looked  puzzled. 

"Have  you  thought  about  him?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at,"  was  the  response. 

"Maybe  the  dog  has  some  choice  in  the  matter,"  Madge  went  on. 
"Maybe  he  has  his  likes  and  desires.  You  have  not  considered  him. 
You  give  him  no  choice.  It  had  never  entered  your  mind  that  pos- 
sibly he  might  prefer  California  to  Alaska.  You  consider  only  what 
you  like.  You  do  with  him  as  you  would  with  a  sack  of  potatoes  or  a 
bale  of  hay." 

This  was  a  new  way  of  looking  at  it,  and  Miller  was  visibly  im- 
pressed as  he  debated  it  in  his  mind.  Madge  took  advantage  of  his 
indecision. 

"If  you  really  love  him,  what  would  be  happiness  to  him  would  be 
your  happiness  also,"  she  urged. 

Skiff  Miller  continued  to  debate  with  himself,  and  Madge  stole  a 
glance  of  exultation  to  her  husband,  who  looked  back  warm  approval. 

"What  do  you  think?"  the  Klondiker  suddenly  demanded. 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  puzzled.    "What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"D'ye  think  he'd  sooner  stay  in  California  ?" 

She  nodded  her  head  with  positiveness.    "I'm  sure  of  it." 

Skiff  Miller  again  debated  with  himself,  though  this  time  aloud,  at 
the  same  time  running  his  gaze  in  a  judicial  way  over  the  mooted 
animal. 

"He  was  a  good  worker.  He's  done  a  heap  of  work  for  me.  He 
never  loafed  on  me,  an'  he  was  a  joe-dandy  at  hammerin'  a  raw  team 
into  shape.  He's  got  a  head  on  him.  He  can  do  everything  but  talk. 
He  knows  what  you  say  to  him.  Look  at  'm  now.  He  knows  we're 
talkin'  about  him." 

The  dog  was  lying  at  Skiff  Miller's  feet,  head  close  down  on  paws, 
ears  erect  and  listening,  and  eyes  that  were  quick  and  eager  to  follow 
the  sound  of  speech  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  first  one  and  then  the 
other. 


DRAMATIC  185 

"An*  there's  a  lot  of  work  in  'm  yet.  He's  good  for  years  to  come. 
An'  I  do  like  him." 

Once  or  twice  after  that  Skiff  MiHer  opened  his  mouth  and  closed 
it  again  without  speaking.     Finally  he  said : 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Your  remarks,  ma'am,  has  some  weight 
in  them.  The  dog's  worked  hard,  and  maybe  he's  earned  a  soft  berth 
an'  has  got  a  right  to  choose.  Anyway,  we'll  leave  it  up  to  him. 
Whatever  *he  says  goes.  You  people  stay  right  here  settin'  down ;  I'll 
say  'good-by'  and  walk  off  casual-like.  If  he  wants  to  stay,  he  can 
stay.  If  he  wants  to  come  with  me,  let'm  come.  I  won't  call  'm  to 
come  an'  don't  you  call  'm  to*  come  back." 

He  looked  with  sudden  suspicion  at  Madge,  and  added,  "Only  you 
must  play  fair.     No  persuadin'  after  my  back  is  turned." 

"We'll  play  fair,"  Madge  began,  but  Skiff  Miller  broke  in  on  her 
assurances. 

"I  know  the  ways  of  women,"  he  announced.  "Their  hearts  is  soft. 
When  their  hearts  is  touched  they're  likely  to  stack  the  cards,  look 
at  the  bottom  of  the  deck,  an'  lie — beggin'  your  pardon,  ma'am — I'm 
only  discoursin'  about  women  in  general." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  Madge  quavered. 

"I  don't  see  as  you've  got  any  call  to  thank  me,"  he  replied ;  "Brown 
ain't  decided  yet.  Now,  you  won't  mind  if  I  go  away  slow.  It's  no 
more'n  fair,  seein'  I'll  be  out  of  sight  inside  a  hundred  yards." 

Madge  agreed  and  added,  "And  I  promise  you  faithfully  that  we 
won't  do  anything  to  influence  him." 

"Well,  then,  I  might  as  well  be  gettin'  along,"  Skiff  Miller  said, 
in  the  ordinary  tones  of  one  departing. 

At  this  change  in  his  voice  Wolf  lifted  his  head  quickly,  and  still 
more  quickly  got  to  his  feet  when  the  man  and  woman  shook  hands. 
He  sprang  up  on  his  hind  legs,  resting  his  fore-paws  on  her  hip  and 
at  the  same  time  licking  Skiff  Miller's  hand.  When  the  latter  shook 
hands  with  Walt,  Wolf  repeated  his  act,  resting  his  weight  on  Walt 
and  licking  both  men's  hands. 

"It  ain't  no  picnic,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  were  the  Klondiker's  last 
words,  as  he  turned  and  went  slowly  up  the  trail. 

For  the  distance  of  twenty  feet  Wolf  watched  him  go,  himself  all 
eagerness  and  expectancy,  as  though  waiting  for  the  man  to  turn  and 
retrace  his  steps.  Then,  with  a  quick,  low  whine,  Wolf  sprang  after 
him,  overtook  him,  caught  his  hand  between  his  teeth  with  reluctant 
tenderness  and  strove  gently  to  make  him  pause. 

Failing  in  this,  Wolf  raced  back  to  where  Walt  Irvine  sat,  catching 


186  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

his  coat-sleeve  in  his  teeth  and  trying  vainly  to  drag  him  after  the 
retreating  man. 

Wolf's  perturbation  began  to  wax.  He  desired  ubiquity.  He  wanted 
to  be  in  two  places  at  the  same  time,  with  the  old  master  and  the 
new,  and  steadily  the  distance  was  increasing.  He  sprang  about  ex- 
citedly, making  short,  nervous  leaps  and  twists,  now  toward  one,  now 
toward  the  other,  in  painful  indecision,  not  knowing  his  own  mind, 
desiring  both  and  unable  to  choose,  uttering  quick,  sharp  whines  and 
beginning  to  pant. 

He  sat  down  abruptly  on  his  haunches,  thrusting  his  nose  upward, 
his  mouth  opening  and  closing  with  jerky  movements,  each  time  open- 
ing wider.  The  jerking  movements  were  in  unison  with  the  recurrent 
spasms  that  attacked  the  throat,  each  spasm  severer  and  more  intense 
than  the  preceding  one.  And  in  accord  with  jerks  and  spasms  the 
larynx  began  to  vibrate,  at  first  silently,  accompanied  by  the  rush  of 
air  expelled  from  the  lungs,  then  sounding  a  low,  deep  note,  the 
lowest  in  the  register  of  the  human  ear.  All  this  was  the  nervous 
and  muscular  preliminary  to  howling. 

But  just  as  the  howl  was  on  the  verge  of  bursting  from  the  full 
throat,  the  wide  open  mouth  was  closed,  the  paroxysms  ceased,  and 
he  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  retreating  man.  Suddenly  Wolf 
turned  his  head,  and  over  his  shoulder  iust  as  steadily  regarded  Walt. 
The  appeal  was  unanswered.  Not  a  word  nor  a  sign  did  the  dog  re- 
ceive, no  suggestion  and  no  clew  as  to  what  his  conduct  should  be. 

A  glance  ahead  to  where  the  old  master  was  nearing  the  curve  of 
the  trail  excited  him  again.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  whine,  and 
then,  struck  by  a  new  idea,  turned  his  attention  to  Madge.  Hitherto 
he  had  ignored  her,  but  now,  both  masters  failing  him,  she  alone  was 
left.  He  went  over  to  her  and  snuggled  his  head  in  her  lap,  nudging 
her  arm  with  his  nose — an  old  trick  of  his  when  begging  for  favors. 
He  backed  away  from  her  and  began  writhing  and  twisting  playfully, 
curveting  and  prancing,  half  rearing  and  striking  his  fore^paws  to  the 
earth,  struggling  with  all  his  body,  from  the  wheedling  eyes  and  flatten- 
ing ears  to  the  wagging  tail,  to  express  the  thought  that  was  in  him 
and  that  was  denied  him  utterance. 

This  too  he  soon  abandoned.  He  was  depressed  by  the  coldness  of 
these  humans  who  had  never  been  cold  before.  No  response  could 
he  draw  from  them,  no  help  could  he  get.  They  did  not  consider 
him.    They  were  as  dead. 

He  turned  and  silently  gazed  after  the  old  master.  Skiff  Miller 
was  rounding  the  curve.    In  a  moment  he  would  be  gone  from  view. 


DRAMATIC  187 

Yet  he  never  turned  his  head,  plodding  straight  onward;  slowly  and 
methodically,  as  though  possessed  of  no  interest  in  what  was  occurring 
behind  his  back. 

And  in  this  fashion  he  went  out  of  view.  Wolf  waited  for  him  to 
reappear.  He  waited  a  long  minute,  quietly,  silently  without  move- 
ment as  though  turned  to  stone — withal  stone  quick  with  eagerness 
and  desire.  He  barked  once,  and  waited.  Then  he  turned  and  trotted 
back  to  Walt  Irvine.  He  sniffed  his  hand  and  dropped  down  heavily 
at  his  feet,  watching  the  trail  where  it  curved  emptily  from  view. 

The  tiny  stream  slipping  down  the  mossy-lipped  stone  seemed  sud- 
denly to  increase  the  volume  of  its  gurgling  noise.  Save  for  the 
meadow  larks,  there  was  no  other  sound.  The  great  yellow  butter- 
flies drifted  silently  through  the  sunshine  and  lost  themselves  in  the 
drowsy  shadows.     Madge  gazed  triumphantly  at  her  husband. 

A  few  minutes  later  Wolf  got  upon  his  feet.  Decision  and  delibera- 
tion marked  his  movements.  He  did  not  glance  at  the  man  and 
woman.  His  eyes  were  fixed  up  the  trail.  He  had  made  up  his  mind. 
They  knew  it.  And  they  knew,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  that 
the  ordeal  had  just  begun. 

He  broke  into  a  trot  and  Madge's  lips  pursed,  forming  an  avenue 
for  the  caressing  sound  that  it  was  the  will  of  her  to  send  forth.  But 
the  caressing  sound  was  not  made.  She  was  impelled  to  look  at  her 
husband,  and  she  saw  the  sjternness  with  which  he  watched  her.  The 
pursed  lips  relaxed,  and  she  sighed  inaudibly. 

Wolf's  trot  broke  into  a  run.  Wider  and  wider  were  the  leaps  he 
made.  Not  once  did  he  turn  his  head,  his  wolf's  brush  standing  out 
straight  behind  him.  He  cut  sharply  across  the  curve  of  the  trail 
and  was  gone. — From  "Love  of  Life,"  copyrighted  by  The  Macmillan 
Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  their  kind  permission. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS 
By  Wilson  Barrett 

It  was  a  festival  day  in  Rome.  Nero  had  decreed  it.  In  the  Circus 
was  to  be  given  a  performance  the  like  of  which  had  never  before 
been  witnessed.  The  whole  city  was  excited  by  the  rumors  of  the 
numbers  of  Christians  doomed  to  die,  and  of  the  ferocity  of  the  beasts 
they  were  to  encounter. 

The  dungeon  beneath  the  amphitheatre  in  which  the  Christians  were 


188  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

imprisoned  was  a  large,  gloomy,  stone  vault,  destitute  of  furniture  of 
any  kind. 

Great  was  the  contrast  between  the  dark,  damp  cell  and  the  sunlit 
arena,  crowded  with  eager,  gayly  dressed  patricians.  In  the  dungeon 
were  scores  of  men  and  women  waiting  for  the  signal  to  pass  forth 
to  a  certain  and  cruel  death ;  in  the  auditorium  was  a  seething  mass 
of  humanity,  thousands  upon  thousands  impatiently  awaiting  thek-  com- 
ing forth,  and  gloating  already  in  imagination  upon  the  horrors  they 
must  undergo. 

The  roars  of  the  hungry  beasts  could  be  faintly  heard,  even  when 
the  doors  were  closed;  so  could  the  equally  merciless  howls  of  the 
lood-thirsty  populace.  )  How  they  were  to  die  had  not  been  told 
the  Trmrtyr^-only-trmrtney  knew,  that  they  were  to  die,  and  that  every 
endeavor  would  be  made  to  make  their  deaths  as  horrible,  revolting 
and  cruel  as  possible. 

.  Among  them  were  a  few  that  trembled  and  felt  sick  with  physical 
fear,  but  not  one  murmured.  Their  eyes  were  mentally  fixed  upon 
the  Cross. 

Again  there  was  a  loud  call  of  the  trumpets.  The  doors  were  thrown 
open,  and  tha  arena  beyond  could  be  seen  by  the  prisoners,  flooded 
with  golden  sunshine. 

"Now,  then,  march!" 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause,  but  almost  before  it  could  be 
realized  Mercia's  clear,  sweet  voice  rang  out  the  first  words  of  their 
beloved  hymn: 

"Shepherd  of  souls  that  stumble  by  the  way, 
Pilot  of  vessels  storm-tossed  in  the  night, 
Healer  of  wounds,  for  help  to  Thee  we  pray." 

Singing  these  words  with  uplifted  eyes  and  undaunted  hearts,  those 
noble  martyrs  went  calmly  and  resignedly  through  the  dark  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death  to  the  everlasting  peace  that  awaited  them 
beyond. 

Mercia,  a  beautiful  girl,  was  left  alone  in  the  dungeon.  It  was 
generally  understood  that  Marcus  Superbus,  the  handsome,  wealthy 
young  Prefect  of  Rome,  was  madly  in  love  with  this  Christian  girl, 
and  the  adventuress  who  hoped  to  entrap  Marcus  prevailed  upon  Nero 
to  make  Mercia's  punishment  unique  and  horrible. 

She  sank  upon  her  knees  with  her  face  pressed  against  the  iron 
bars.  Presently  the  door  leading  to  the  corridor  was  unbarred.  Two 
officers  entered,  ushering  in  Marcus,   who  started   on  finding   Mercia 


/  "7 

DRAMATIC  189 

akme.  Dismissing  the  guards,  he  closed  the  door  and  gazed  with 
infinite  tenderness  upon  the  white  figure  at  his  feet — Mercia. 

For  a  time  Marcus  could  not  speak ;  his  heart  felt  like  bursting  with 
grief  for  this  beautiful  girl.  Here  in  this  loathsome  dungeon  she 
could  still  preserve  her  courage  and  could  still  pray  for  forgiveness 
for  her  persecutors. 

"Mercia !     Mercia !" 

"What  would  you  with  me?" 

"I  came  to  save  thee.  I  have  knelt  to  Nero  for  thy  pardon.  He 
will  grant  it  upon  one  condition — that  thou  dost  renounce  thy  false 
worship — " 

"It  is  not  false!     It  is  true  and  everlasting." 

"Everlasting?  Nothing  is  everlasting!  There  is  no  after-life;  the 
end  is  here.  Men  come  and  go ;  they  drink  their  little  cup  of  woe  or 
happiness,  and  then  sleep — the  sleep  that  knows  no  awakening." 

"Art  thou  sure  of  that?  Ask  thyself,  are  there  no  inward  monitors 
that  silently  teach  thee  there  is  a  life  to  come?" 

"All  men  have  wishes  for  a  life  to  come,  if  it  could  better  this."  / 

"It  will  better  this,  if  this  life  be  well  lived.    Hast  thou  lived  well?" 

"No;  thou  hast  taught  me  that  I  never  knew  the  shame  of  sin  until 
I  knew  thy  purity.     Ah!  whence  comes  thy  wondrous  grace?" 

"If  I  have  any  grace  it  comes  from  Him  who  died  oiy  Calvary's 
cross  that  grace  might  come  to  all."  / 

"Thou  dost  believe  this?"  ' 

"I  do  believe  it."  \ 

"But  thou  hast  no  proof."         \ 

"Yes.    The  proof  is  here." 

"Oh,  thou  dost  believe  so?  All  men,  all  nations  have  their  gods. 
This  one  bows  down  to  a  thing  of  stone,  and  calls  it  his  god ;  another 
to  the  sun,  and  calls  it  his  god.  A  god  of  brass — a  god  of  gold — a  god 
of  wood.    Each  tells  himself  his  is  the  true  god.    All  are  mistaken." 

"All  are  mistaken." 

"And  thou?  What  is  thy  God?  A  fantasy — a  vision — a  superstition. 
Wilt  thou  die  for  such  a  thing?" 

"I  will  die  for  my  Master  gladly." 

"Mercia,  hear  me!  Thou  shalt  not  diel  I  cannot  let  thee  go!  I 
love  you  so!     I  love  you  so!" 

"Thou  hast  told  me  so  before,  and  wouldst  have  slain  thy  soul  and 
mine." 

"I  grant  it.  I  did  not  know.  I  was  blind !  Now  I  see  my  love  for 
thee  is  love  indeed.    The  brute  is  dead  in  me,  the  man  is  living.    Thy 


190  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

purity  that  I  would  have  smirched  hath  cleansed  me.    Live,  Mercia! 
Live  and  be  my  wife  I" 

"Thy  wife?  Thy  wife?  Oh,  Marcus,  hear  me.  This  love  I  speak 
of  came,  I  know  not  whence,  nor  how,  then;  now  I  know  it  came 
from  Him  who  gave  me  life.  I  receive  it  joyfully  because  He  gave 
it.  Think  you  He  gave  it  to  tempt  me  to  betray  Him?  -Nay,  Marcus, 
He  gave  it  to  me  to  uphold  and  strengthen  me.  I  will  be  true  to 
Him!" 
"Thou  wilt  love?" 

"I  will  not  deny  Him  who  died  for  me !" 

"Hercia,  if  thy  God  exists  He  made  us  both,  the  one  for  the  other. 
Hearken  I  I  am  rich  beyond  all  riches.  I  have  power,  skill,  strength; 
with  these  Hfre  world  would  be  my  slave,  my  vassal.  Nero  is  hated, 
loathed — is  tottering  on  his  throne.  I  have  friends  in  plenty  who 
would  help  me — the  throne  of  Caesar  might  be  mine — and  thou  shalt 
share  it  with  me  if  thou  wilt  but  live.  The  crown  of  an  Empress  shall 
deck  that  lovely  head  if  thou  wilt  but  live — only  consent  to  live  I" 
-  "My  crown  is  not  of  earth,  Marcus ;  it  awaits  me  there." 

"I  cannot  part  from  thee  and  live,  Mercia!  IJaave,  to  save  thy 
precious  life,  argued  and  spoken  againstjjjy-^faith,  thy  God,  but  to 
speak  truth  to  thee,  I  have  been  jare4y^troubled  since  I  first  saw  thee. 
Strange  yearnings  of  the  spirit  come  in  the  lonely  watches  of  the 
night ;  I  battle  with  them,  but  they  will  not  yield.  I  tremble  with 
strange  fears,  strange  thoughts,  strange  hopes.  If  thy  faith  be  true, 
what  is  this  world? — a  little  tarrying-place,  a  tiny  bridge  between  two 
vast  eternities,  that  from  which  we  have  traveled,  that  towards  which 
we  go.  Oh,  but  to  know!  How  can  I  know,  Mercia?  Teach  me  how 
to  know!" 

"Look  at  the  Cross,  and  pray,  'Help  Thou  my  unbelief.'  Give  up 
all  that  thou  hast,  and  follow  Him!" 

"YVOuld  He  welcome  even.  Awr?* 

"Yea,  even  thee,'  Marcus." 

Now  there  sounded  on  their  ears  another  call  from  the  trumpets. 
The  brazen  doors  slid  back,  the  guards  entered,  followed  this  time 
by  Tigellinus. 

"Prefect,  the  hour  has  come.  Caesar  would  have  this  maid's  de- 
cision.   Doth  she  renounce  Christus  and  live,  or  cling  to  him  and  die?" 

"Mercia,  answer  him !" 

"I  cling  to  him  and  die.    Farewell,  Marcus!" 

"No,  not  'Farewell.'  Death  cannot  part  us.  I,  too,  am  ready! 
My    lingering    doubts    are    dead;    the    light    hath    come!     Return    to 


DRAMATIC  191 

Caesar ;  tell  him  Chrlstus  hath-  triumphed.  Marcus,  too,  is-  a  Christian." 
His  face  shone  with  the  same  glorious  radiance  that  had  trans- 
figured the  features  of  Mercia.  They  were  glorified  by  the  presence 
of  Him  who  had  promised  to  them,  even  as  He  had  promised  to  the 
penitent  thief  dying  on  the  Cross  beside  Him — "Verily,  I  say  unto  thee, 
this  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise." 

THE  LITTLE  FIR  TREE 
By  Hans  Christian  Andersen 

Once  there  was  a  Little  Fir  Tree,  slim  and  pointed  and  shiny,  which 
stood  in  a  forest  in  the  midst  of  some  big  fir  trees,  broad  and  tall  and 
shadowy  green.  The  Little  Fir  Tree  was  very  unhappy  because  he 
was  not  big  like  the  others.  When  the  birds  came  flying  into  the 
woods  and  lit  on  the  branches  of  the  big  trees,  and  built  their  nests 
there,  he  used  to  call  up  to  them,  "Come  down,  come  down,  rest  in 
my  branches  I"    But  they  always  said,  "Oh,  no,  no,  you  are  too  little." 

And  when  the  splendid  wind  came  blowing  and  singing  through  the 
forest,  it  bent  and  rocked  and  swung  the  tops  of  the  big  trees  and 
murmured  to  them.  Then  the  Little  Fir  Tree  looked  up  and  called — 
"Oh,  please,  dear  wind,  come  down  and  play  with  me !"  But  he  always 
said,  "Oh,  no,  you  are  too  little,  you  are  too  little."  And  in  the  winter 
the  white  snow  fell  softly,  softly,  and  covered  the  great  trees  all  over 
with  wonderful  caps  and  coats  of  white.  The  Little  Fir  Tree  close 
down  in  the  cover  of  the  others  would  call  up,  "Oh,  please,  dear  snow, 
give  me. a  cap  too!  I  want  to  play  too!"  But  the  snow  always  said — 
"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  you  are  too  little,  you  are  too  little." 

The  worst  of  all  was  when  men,  came  with  sledges  and  teams  of 
horses.  They  came  to  cut  the  big  trees  and  carry  them  away.  And 
when  one  had  been  cut  down  and  carried  away,  the  others  talked  about 
it,  and  nodded  their  heads.  And  the  Little  Fir  Tree  listened,  and  heard 
them  say  that  when  you  were  carried  away  so,  you  might  become  the 
mast  of  a  mighty  ship  and  go  far  away  over  the  ocean  and  see  many 
wonderful  things,  or  you  might  be  a  part  of  a  fine  house  in  a  great 
city  and  see  much  of  life.  The  Little  Fir  Tree  wanted  greatly  to  see 
life  but  he  was  always  too  little;  the  men  passed  him  by.  But,  by 
and  by,  one  cold  winter's  morning,  men  came  with  a  sledge  and  horses 
and  after  they  had  cut  here  and  there,  they  came  to  the  circle  of  trees 
round  the  Little  Fir  Tree  and  looked  all  about.  "There  are  none  little 
enough,"    they    said.      Oh !    how   the    Little    Fir    Tree   pricked    up    his 


192  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

needles.  "Here  is  one,"  said  one  of  the  men;  "it  is  just  little  enough." 
And  he  touched  the  Little  Fir  Tree.  The  Little  Fir  Tree  was  happy 
as  a  bird,  because  he  knew  they  were  about  to  cut  him  down.  And 
when  he  was  being  carried  away  on  the  sledge  he  lay  wondering  so 
contentedly  whether  he  should  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  or  part  of  a  fine 
house  in  the  city.  But  when  they  came  to  the  town  he  was  taken  out 
and  set  upright  in  a  tub  and  placed  on  the  edge  of  a  sidewalk  in  a 
row  of  other  fir  trees  all  small,  but  none  so  little  as  he.  And  then  the 
Little  Fir  Tree  began  to  see  life.  People  kept  coming  to  look  at  the 
trees  and  take  them  away,  but  always  when  they  saw  the  Little  Fir 
Tree,  they  shook  their  heads  and  said,  "It  is  too  little,  too  little!" 
Until  finally  two  children  came  along,  hand  in  hand,  looking  carefully 
at  all  the  small  trees.  When  they  saw  the  Little  Fir  Tree,  they  cried 
out,  "We'll  take  this  one;  it  is  just  little  enough!"  They  took  him 
out  of  his  tub  and  carried  him  away  between  them.  And  the  happy 
Little  Fir  Tree  spent  all  his  time  wondering  what  it  could  be  that  he 
was  just  little  enough  for;  he  knew  it  could  hardly  be  a  mast  or  a 
house  since  he  was  going  away  with  children.  He  kept  wondering 
while  they  took  him  in  through  some  big  doors  and  set  him  up  in  an- 
other tub  on  the  table  in  a  bare  little  room.  Pretty  soon  they  went 
away  and  came  back  again  with  a  big  basket  carried  between  them. 
Then  some  pretty  ladies,  with  white  caps  on  their  heads  and  white 
aprons  over  their  blue  dresses,  came  bringing  little  parcels.  The  chil- 
dren took  things  out  of  the  basket  and  began  to  play  with  the  Little 
Fir  Tree,  just  as  he  had  often  wished  the  birds  and  wind  and  snow 
to  do;  he  felt  their  soft  little  touches  on  his  head  and  his  twigs  and 
his  branches,  and  when  he  looked  down  at  himself,  as  far  as  he  could 
look,  he  saw  that  he  was  all  hung  with  gold  and  silver  chains  1 

There  were  strings  of  fluffy  white  stuff  drooping  around  him.  His 
twigs  held  little  gold  nuts  and  pink  rosy  balls  and  silver  stars.  He 
had  little  pink  and  white  candles  in  his  arms,  but  last  and  most  wonder- 
ful of  all,  the  children  hung  a  beautiful  white  floating  doll  angel  over 
his  head!  The  Little  Fir  Tree  could  not  breathe  for  joy  and  wonder. 
What  was  it  that  he  was  now?  Why  was  this  glory  for  him?  After 
a  time  every  one  went  away  and  left  him.  It  grew  dusk  and  the 
Little  Fir  Tree  began  to  hear  strange  sounds  through  the  closed  doors. 
Sometimes  he  heard  a  child  crying.  He  was  beginning  to  be  lonely. 
It  grew  more  and  more  shadowy.  All  at  once  the  doors  opened  and 
the  two  children  came  in.  Two  of  the  pretty  ladies  were  with  them. 
They  came  to  the  Little  Fir  Tree  and  quickly  lighted  all  the  pink  and 
white  candles.    Then  the  two  pretty  ladies  took  hold  of  the  table  with 


DRAMATIC  193 

the  Little  Fir  Tree  on  it  and  pushed  it,  very  smoothly  and  quickry, 
out  of  the  doors,  across  a  hall  and  in  at  another  door.  The  Little  Fir 
Tree  had  a  sudden  sight  of  a  long  room  with  many  little  white  beds 
in  it,  of  children  propped  up  on  pillows  in  the  beds,  and  of  other 
children  in  great  wheel  chairs  and  others  hobbling  about  or  sitting  in 
little  chairs.  He  wondered  why  all  the  little  children  looked  so  white 
and  tired;  he  did  not  know  he  was  in  a  hospital.  But  before  he  could 
wonder  any  more,  his  breath  was  quickly  taken  away  by  the  shout 
those  little  white  children  gave.  "Oh,  Oh!  M — M — "  they  cried. 
"How  pretty!"  "How  beautiful!"  "Oh,  isn't  it  lovely?"  He  knew 
they  must  mean  him,  for  all  their  shining  eyes  were  looking  straight 
at  him.  He  stood  straight  as  a  mast  and  quivered  in  every  needle  for 
joy.  Presently  one  weak  little  voice  called  out,  "It's  the  nicest  Christ- 
mas tree  I  ever  saw!"  And  then,  at  last,  the  Little  Fir  Tree  knew 
what  he  was ;  he  was  a  Christmas  tree !  And  from  his  shiny  head  to 
his  feet  he  was  glad,  through  and  through,  because  he  was  just  little 
enough  to  be  the  nicest  kind  of  a  tree  in  the  world. 


A  CHIP  OF  THE  OLD  BLOCK 
By  Juliet  Wilbur  Tompkins 

The  two  were  amazingly,  even  absurdly  alike,  as  they  faced  each 
other  across  the  library  table.  The  very  scowl  that  lay  heavy  on  the 
girl's  forehead  was  an  obvious  inheritance  from  the  parental  scowl 
opposite. 

"I'm  a  self-made  man,  Paula — plain  Western  goods.  It's  too  late 
to  teach  me  fancy  values.  I  don't  go  a  hang  on  anything  but  facts. 
Some  folks  can  put  a  paper  frill  around  a  mutton  chop  and  call  it 
lamb,  but  that  ain't  my  way.     I  see  things  as  they  are." 

"Well,  I'm  the  daughter  of  a  self-made  man,  and  of  a  New  England 
school-teacher  too ;  if  you  can  beat  that  combination  for  seeing  things, 
as  they  are — " 

"It's  your  notion  that  you  see  this  young  feller  as  he  is?" 

"I  do.  And  he  has  got  just  the  things  that  you  and  I  haven't  and 
need." 

"He  has,  eh?     You  might  mention  one  or  two/' 

"Ancestry." 

"Oh,  pshaw!" 

"Well,  then,  a  sense  of  humor." 


194  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"A — what?"  If  she  had  said  a  "top-knot,"  he  could  not  have  looked 
more   amazedly  disgusted. 

"A  sense  of  humor.  And  he's  got  common  sense  too.  He's  poor 
and  alone  in  the  world  and  not  awfully  practical,  but  I  tell  you,  father, 
there's  stuff  in  him  that  we  hustlers  have  got  to  get  into  our  families 
sooner  or  later,  if  we're  going  to  the  top.    And — I — am." 

"H'm.     On  sixty  dollars  a  month?" 

"If  necessary.  Oh,  I  don't  pretend  that  Ralph  has  done  much  in 
business  yet.    Few  men  have,  at  nineteen." 

"At  nineteen  I  had  been  at  work  seven  years,  and  had  been  raised 
six  times,  both  in  salary  and  position.  This  young  feller  tells  me  he 
has  been  at  work  three  years,  and  has  been  raised  once — in  salary  only." 

"And  that  once  was  since  he  became  interested  in  me;  there  is  one 
thing  you  have  got.  to  take  into  account,  father — that  Ralph  with  me 
will  have  a  very  different  career  from  Ralph  without  me." 

"But,  Paula,  is  that  just  your  notion  of  a  husband?" 

"Ralph  is  just  my  notion  of  a  husband." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  he  ain't  mine,  and  that  settles  it.  You'll  live 
to  thank  me  for  ft." 

"Well,  here's  fair  warning:     I  don't  give  him  up." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  will." 

"You  are  trying  to  make  the  worst  mistake  of  your  life,  father," 
she  said  reasonably.  "Now  a  mushy  daughter  would  give  in  and  let 
you  repent  it  later;  but  I  think  it's  a  lot  better  to  save  you  from  it, 
and  you'll  live  to  thank  me  yet." 

"I'll  live  to  take  you  East  and  leave  you  there  with  your  Aunt 
Jennie  till  you've  got  sense,  if  I  hear  any  more  of  this." 

"Well,  then,  you  won't  hear  any  more  about  it."    And  she  went  out. 

"The  little  cuss !"  he  muttered.  Then  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
letter  beginning,  "Dear  Jennie,"  and  ending,  "For  heaven's  sake,  wire 
that  you  will  take  her,  or  she'll  be  off  with  him — by  the  front  door 
and  in  broad  daylight,  understand.  She's  a  straight  little  cuss.  What 
an  everlasting  shame  she  wasn't  a  boyl" 

Even  as  he  signed :  "Your  aff.  Bro.,"  the  massive  front  door  banged ; 
but  he  was  too  absorbed  to  notice  it.  Paula,  calm  and  serious,  carry- 
ing a  suit-case,  took  a  car  for  the  station  where  a  young  man  was 
nervously  pacing  the  platform.  He  stood  watching  her  for  a  moment 
before  she  saw  him.  The  clear  red  of  her  cheeks  was  no  deeper  than 
usual,  her  blue  eyes  were  unclouded,  in  all  her  handsome,  well-dressed 
person  there  was  not  one  hurried  movement.  She  even  paused  to 
compare  her   watch  with   the   station   clock.     An   irrepressible   laugh 


DRAMATIC  195 

brought  the  color  back  to  his  face.  "Oh,  Paula,  so  you  are  here,"  as 
he  hurried  to  meet  her.  "You  elope  as  calmly  as  you  would  go 
shopping." 

"It's  a  far  more  sensible  proceeding!     Have  you  the  tickets?" 

"Not  yet,  dear  Paula,  I  want  you  enough  to  commit  almost  any 
crime — you  know  that,  and  yet  I  can't  quite  square  it  with  myself — 
this  running  away  with  a  man's  daughter.  And — such  a  rich  man, 
confound  it!  I've  been  awake  all  night  thinking  over  one  thing.  You 
swept  me  off  my  feet  yesterday ;  but  to-day — " 

"But,  Ralph,  I  gave  father  fair  warning.  And  this  happens  to  be  a 
case  where  he  is  wrong  and  I  am  right.  I  don't  think  that  just  be- 
cause I'm — I'm  fond  of  you,  but  I  can  see,  you  know,  just  what  you 
have  got,  and  what  the  other  men  I  know  haven't  got,  better  than 
father  can.  He  will  see  it  too,  some  day,  and  thank  me — I  told  him 
so.  I'm  not  really  eloping,  since  eighteen  is  the  age  for  a  girl  in  this 
state.  And  the  fact  that  you're  not  of  age  yet  doesn't  matter,  for 
you  haven't  any  parents  or  guardians  to  object.  And  father  needn't 
give  us  any  money — we  can  get  along  with  yours  and  mine.  Now  the 
train  is  due  in  three  minutes  and,  of  course,  you  needn't  marry  me 
if  you  don't  want  to.    But  if  you  do,  you'd  better  get  the  tickets." 

Three  hours  later  the  two  emerged  from  a  cab  in  front  of  an  im- 
posing courthouse  and  followed  endless  lengths  of  unclean,  tessellated 
pavement  until  they  reached  a  door  bearing  the  significant  sign: 
"Marriage  Licenses."  The  clerk  had  the  engraved  forms  out  before 
anything  coherent  had  been  said.  He  was  a  hurried,  dry  little  man, 
who  appeared  suffering  to  say,  "Step  lively,  please!"  at  every  pause. 

"Parents  or  guardian's  consent?" 

"I  have  no  parents  or  guardian." 

"Can't  issue  license  to  you  then." 

"What?— why— why  not?" 

"Law  of  the  state." 

"But  I  am  of  age!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can  get  married  all  right,  but  he  can't" 

"But  what  can  we  do?" 

"Wait  two  years,  or  get  a  guardian  and  obtain  his  consent."  And 
Cupid  turned  firmly  back  to  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

They  went  out  into  the  corridor  and,  finding  a  bench  in  a  windowed 
recess,  dropped  helplessly  down  on  it  while  Ralph  gave  voice  to  his 
personal  opinion  of  the  state  law. 

"Swearing  isn't  going  to  help,  Ralph,"  said  Paula  decidedly.  "Now 
we've  got  to  consider  everything." 


196  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"But  the  old  fool — when  I  haven't  a  soul  who  could  raise  the  least — " 

"Yes,  dear.  Now  suppose  we  take  up  each  possibility  in  turn.  It's 
half-past  twelve,  and  there  isn't  a  train  back  till  five-twenty,  too  late 
to  head  off  my  letter  to  father." 

"Oh,  it  would  be  too  flatl" 

"And  yet  we  don't  know  a  soul  in  this  city,  and  we  can't  stay  here 
unmarried." 

"I  was  a  beast,  an  ass,  to  get  you  into  such  a  mess.  Perhaps  some 
sort  of  a  minister  could  marry  us  without  a  license.  I  know  they  do 
in  some  states." 

"Go  ask  him."     But  he  came  back  dejectedly. 

"Can't  be  done;  I  ought  to  be  hanged!" 

"Well,  suppose  we  go  and  get  lunch.  I  want  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  ham  sandwich." 

They  found  it  near  by,  at  a  marble  counter,  and  presently  took  up 
their  problem  with  renewed  courage. 

"Of  course,  we  can't  stay  here  unmarried.  If  we  don't  find  a  way 
before  five-twenty — we  must  go  back — and  father  will  probably  take 
me  East  by  the  next  train." 

"And  quite  right.  I  wouldn't  let  my  daughter  marry  a  blithering 
idiot  who  could  get  her  into  a  scrape  like  this." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  father's  rage,  but  I  should  hate  his  crowing.  I 
can't  bear  to  be  beaten  like  this,  but  of  course,  if  you  don't  try  to 
think,  we  might  as  well  go  back  to  the  station." 

"But  what  can  thinking  do  against  a  set  of  darn  fool  state  laws?" 
he  burst  out.  "If  I  had  only  had  the  sense  to  set  up  a  guardian — " 
He  broke  off  at  her  gasp  of  excitement.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  space, 
big  with  a  growing  idea,  for  a  breathless  moment;  then  she  turned  to 
him  radiant,  both  fists  clenched  on  the  counter. 

"Ralph,  I'll  adopt  youl  Anybody  of  age  can  adopt  anybody  who 
isn't.    Then  I  will  give  my  consent  and  there  we  are!" 

He  stared  at  her  speechlessly;  then  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  gave  way  to  wild  laughter. 

"Have  you  anything  against  it?" 

"No— no !    Nothing !" 

"Come  on,  then.    We  shall  have  to  hurry." 

"The  Court,"  to  whom  they  were  referred  for  information,  proved 
to  be  a  huge,  middle-aged,  kindly  person.  If  marriage  was  difficult 
under  the  state  laws,  adoption  was  comparatively  easy. 

"Now  what  is  the  very  shortest  time  in  which  it  could  be  done?" 


DRAMATIC  197 

"Oh,  it  need  not  take  much  time.  A  couple  of  weeks  would  be 
ample." 

Two  pairs  of  dismayed  eyes  consulted  each  other. 

"Couldn't  you  do  it  in  less?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know.     If  the  circumstances  were  extraordinary — " 

"Couldn't  you  do  it  before  five  o'clock  to-day?" 

"To-day?" 

"We  came  down  here  to  be  married,  but  were  refused  a  license  be- 
cause I  am  not  of  age,  and  hadn't  anybody  to  give  consent.  But  if 
this  lady,  who  is  of  age,  could  legally  adopt  me  before  the  marriage 
bureau  closed,  then,  you  see,  she  could  give  the  necessary  consent." 

The  Court  laughed  until  his  whole  bulk  was  a  heaving  frame  of 
merriment.  But  he  was  absorbed  again  in  an  instant,  and  after  a 
moment's  deliberation  he  took  down  their  names  and  ages  and  wrote 
briefly : 

"And  you  say  the  child  is  willing?" 

"He  seems  to  be." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Paula  Dennison  had  been  formally  appointed 
guardian  of  her  future  lord  and  master,  and  had  given  her  written 
consent  to  his  marriage.  The  Court  himself  conducted  them  to  the 
license  bureau,  explained  matters  to  the  dry  little  clerk,  dryer  and 
more  hurried  than  ever,  witnessed  the  marriage,  kissed  the  bride, 
escorted  them  down-stairs,  and  put  them  into  a  cab. 

The  Court  was  still  standing  to  smile  after  the  departing  carriage 
when  another  came  lurching  up  from  the  direction  of  the  station.  Even 
before  it  could  stop,  a  middle-aged  man  had  burst  out  and  was  striding 
up  the  steps  with  dark  and  concerted  purpose  on  his  flushed  face. 
The  Court  stared  at  him,  at  first  absently,  then  with  dawning  suspicion 
— chin,  blue  eyes,  carriage — surely  such  a  resemblance  could  not  be  a 
mere  coincidence!  After  a  brief  hesitation  he  discreetly  followed,  and 
suspicion  grew  to  conviction  as  the  man  turned  to  the  marriage  license 
bureau.  The  Court,  lurking  in  the  shadow  of  the  open  door,  heard 
him  demand  whether  a  young  woman  named  Dennison  had  tried  to 
get  married  there  to-day. 

"Married  fifteen  minutes  ago." 

"But  they  couldn't  be — the  boy  wasn't  of  age.  'Tain't  legal.  You 
had  no  right  to  issue  a  license.    Why,  I'll  have  you — " 

"The  applicant  had  the  written  consent  of  his  guardian." 

"But  he  hadn't  got  a  guardian— I  found  that  out  before  I  started, 
He  was  fooling  you.    It's  a — " 


198  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Paula's  written  consent  was  laid  before  his  eyes. 

"The  lady  took  out  papers  of  guardianship,  and  so  her  consent  was 
valid." 

"Adopted  him?  Adopted  him  and  then  married  him!  The  little 
cussl  Adopted  him,  by  golly  I  Oh,  why  wasn't  she  a  boy?  Oh,  well, 
I  guess  it's  all  right.    Adopted  him  1    And  I  never  thought  of  that  I" 

THE  HONOR  OF  THE  WOODS 

Anonymous 

The  principal  character  of  this  story  is  John  Norton,  an  aged  trapper 
and  scout  in  the  Adirondacks,  who  is  adored  by  the  people  for  his 
bravery  and  courage.  And  although  he  has  not  rowed  in  a  race  for 
over  forty  years,  he  has  decided  to  enter  a  free  for  all  contest,  to  be 
pulled  on  the  Saranac.  He  does  this,  because  guides  have  brought  him 
word  that  "perfessionals"  are  to  pull.  And  he  thinks  it  would  be 
an  "eternal  shame  if  them  city  boasters  beat  the  men  born  in  the  woods 
and  on  their  own  waters  too."  Another  important  character  in  our 
story  is  a  young  boy,  of  whom  John  Norton  always  speaks  as  "the  Lad," 
a  good-hearted,  simple-minded  boy,  whom  the  trapper  has  befriended 
and  who  worships  the  old  man.  At  the  hotel  all  is  expectation.  A 
great  crowd  has  gathered  in  anticipation  of  the  morrow's  races,  for 
the  guides  had  brought  word  that  "Old  John  Norton  was  not  only 
coming,  but  that  he  was  going  to  enter  the  race."  The  thought  that 
they  were  going  to  see  this  celebrated  man  stirred  the  people  with  a 
feeling  of  intense  curiosity. 

In  the  crowd  were  several  aged  men  who  remembered  the  fame  the 
trapper  had  as  an  oarsman  fifty  years  ago.  And  one  of  their  number 
closed  a  heated  verbal  debate  about  the  merits  of  the  various  con- 
testants with,  "I  tell  you,  sir,  there  ain't  a  man  on  God's  green  earth 
kin  beat  John  Norton  at  the  oars."  On  the  other  hand  the  professionals 
had  their  backers — college  boys,  English  tourists,  lawyers,  clergymen, 
and  bankers.  Thus  stood  the  feeling  when  a  boat,  with  the  Lad  at 
the  oar  and  the  trapper  at  the  paddle,  came  out  from  behind  an  island 
into  plain  view  of  the  hundreds  that  were  watching  for  it.  As  the 
boat  came  on  talking  ceased,  and  amid  a  profound  silence  it  drew  up 
within  fifty  feet  of  the  landing.  Suddenly  an  old  man  leaning  on  a 
stout  stick  flourished  it  in  the  air,  and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  that  shook 
with  the  intensity  of  his  emotion,  "John  Norton,  he  saved  my  life  at 
the  battle  of   Salt  Lakes   forty  years   ago.     Three  cheers   for  John 


DRAMATIC  199 

Norton!"  Then  such  a  cheer  arose  as  to  burst  the  stillness  into 
fragments  and,  thrice  repeated,  rolled  its  roar  across  the  lake  and 
against  the  distant  hills,  until  their  hollow  caverns  resounded  again, 
while  on  the  instant  a  hundred  white  handkerchiefs,  waved  by  whiter 
hands,  sprang  into  sight  and  filled  the  air  with  their  snowy  flutterings. 
For  one  instant  the  color  came  and  went  in  the  face  of  the  surprised 
trapper.  He  then  arose  and  stood  at  his  utmost  height.  Meanwhile 
the  eyes  of  the  great  multitude  had  time  to  take  in  his  splendid  pro- 
portions, and  the  grave  majesty  of  his  countenance.  He  then  settled 
back  and  the  boat  moved  toward  the  landing.  It  was  high  noon  on 
the  Saranac,  and  a  brighter  day  was  never  seen.  The  lake  had  not 
stirred  a  ripple,  and  the  air  was  that  cool,  fragrant  air  so  good  to 
breathe  in  a  race.  The  "free  for  all"  was  to  be  pulled  at  one  o'clock. 
The  entries  were  closed  the  evening  before,  and  stood  seven  in  all: 
the  three  professionals,  the  brother  guides,  known  as  Fred  and  Charley, 
the  old  trapper  and  the  Lad. 

The  boats  were  already  in  position.  The  course  ran  straight  down 
the  lake  to  a  line  of  seven  buoys,  so  that  each  boat  had  its  own  buoy 
to  turn  around  and  thence  pull  back  again.  The  length  of  the  course 
was  just  four  miles,  a  longer  race  by  half  than  was  ever  before  pulled 
on  those  waters.  The  boats  were  by  no  means  the  same  length  and 
width — the  Lad's  was  by  far  the  heaviest. 

The  number  of  spectators  was  a  wonder  to  all ;  where  all  the  people 
came  from  was  a  mystery.  The  long  piazza  of  the  hotel,  the  wharf, 
even  the  roof  of  the  boathouse  swarmed  with  human  beings.  The 
shore  on  either  side  was  lined  with  spectators  for  the  distance  of  half 
a  mile. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  trapper,  "ye  must  remember  that  a  four-mile 
race  is  a  good  deal  of  a  pull,  and  the  goin'  off  ain't  half  so  decidin'  as 
the  comin'  in.  I  don't  conceit  that  we  can  afford  to  fool  any  time, 
for  them  perfessionals  have  come  here  to  row,  and  they  look  to  me 
as  if  they  had  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  stuff  in  them;  but  it  won't 
do  to  get  flustrated  at  the  start,  and  if  ye  see  fit  to  follow  I'll  set  ye 
a  jegmatical  sort  of  a  stroke  that  will  send  us  out  to  the  buoys 
yonder  without  any  rawness  in  the  windpipe  or  kinks  in  the  legs.  But 
still  if  ye  don't  think  yer  a-pullin'  fast  enough  take  yer  lick,  fur  in  such 
a  race  as  this  is  likely  to  be,  a  man  should  follow  his  own  notions  and 
act  accordin'  to  his  gifts." 

"Do  you  think  we  will  win,  old  trapper  ?"  asked  Fred  "I  dunno,  boy, 
I  sartinly  dunno,  but  I  don't  like  yer  oars,  especially  that  left  one. 
There's  a  kink  in  the  shank  of  it  that  hadn't  orter  be  there." 


200  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Your  oars  are  big  enough  to  hold  anyway  and  I  hold  you  will  win." 

"Thank  ye,  boys,  thank  ye ;  yis,  I  sartinly  shall  try,  for  it  would  be 
a  mortal  shame  to  have  that  prize  to  go  out  of  the  woods,  an'  if  nothin' 
gives  way  I'll  give  'em  a  touch  of  the  stuff  that's  in  me,  the  last  mile, 
that'll  make  'em  get  down  to  work  in  earnest,  but  if  anything  happens 
I  have  great  hopes  of  the  Lad  there,  for  his  gifts  are  wonderful  at 
the  oars  and — " 

"Ready  there,"  came  the  clear  voice  of  the  starter ;  "ready  there  for 
the  word." 

"Aye,  aye,  ready  it  is,"  replied  the  trapper.  "Now,  Lad,  if  anything 
happens  to  me  and  you  see  I  can't  win,  John  Norton  will  never  forgive 
you  if  you  don't  pull  like  a  sinner  runnin'  from  jedgment." 

"Ready  there,  all  of  you;  One,  two,  three,  GO." 

The  oars  of  the  professionals  dropped  on  the  water  as  if  their  blades 
were  controlled  by  one  man,  and  their  stroke  was  so  tense  and  quick 
that  the  light  boats  fairly  jumped  ahead.  The  trapper  and  the  Lad 
had  been  slower  to  get  away  and  were  a  full  length  behind  before 
they  got  fairly  into  motion.  The  Lad  was  the  last  to  get  started  and 
so  careless  and  ungainly  was  his  appearance  that  the  crowd,  who 
cheered  at  the  passage  of  the  others,  laughed  and  groaned  at  him. 
For  forty  rods  the  race  continued  without  change  in  the  relative  posi- 
tion of  the  boats. 

The  oars  flashed,  dropped  and  flashed  again,  as  the  professionals 
swept  their  oars  ahead.  Some  rods  behind  the  trapper  and  Fred  were 
rowing  side  by  side,  stroke  for  stroke,  long,  steady  and  strong. 

"Yis,  yis,  I  understand ;  but  don't  ye  worry,  four  miles  is  four  miles. 
Still  if  yer  a-gittin'  narvous  we'll  lengthen  out  a  little  jest  to  show  'em 
we  ain'  more'n  half  asleep."  So  saying  the  old  man  set  his  comrades 
so  long  and  sharply  pulled  a  stroke  that  the  two  boats  doubled  their 
rate  of  speed  and  came  up  even  with  the  boats  ahead.  "There  now,  I 
guess  we'll  ease  up  a  leetle,  for  the  time  to  really  pull  ain't  come 
yet.  I  tell  you,  boy,  that  rifle  is  a-goin'  to  stay  here  in  the  woods. 
There's  the  Lad  back  there  can  beat  us  both,  but  he  won't  try  'cause 
he  thinks  it  would  tickle  an  old  man  like  me  to  win  the  prize.  Easy, 
boy,  easy,  let  'em  git  ahead  if  they  want  to,  the  comin'  in  is  what 
decides  the  race."  Thus  the  boats  rushed  on  their  way,  while  the 
multitude  watched  with  eager  eyes  the  receding  racers.  The  party  of 
the  trapper  was  in  the  ascendant,  for  the  spurt  he  had  made  revealed 
the  tremendous  power  of  the  man  and  showed  that  old  age  had  not 
weakened  his  enormous  strength.     At  last  a  man  who  stood  on  tht 


DRAMATIC  203 

edge  of  the  boathouse  called  out:  "They  have  turned  the  buoys;  the 
professionals  «re  ahead." 

"How  far  behind  is  John  Norton?" 

"He  and  the  guides  are  four  rods  astern  at  least." 

"Where  is  the  Lad?" 

"Oh,  he's  out  of  the  race ;  he's  fully  ten  rods  behind  the  trapper  and 
Fred."  By  this  time  the  boats  were  plainly  in  view — the  contestants 
were  barely  a  mile  away. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  trapper,  "the  time  has  come  for  us  to  show 
the  stuff  that's  in  us.  Are  ye  ready  for  the  stroke,  boys?"  A  groan 
of  pain  interrupted  the  trapper.  The  oars  of  Charley  were  trailing — 
his  strength  had  given  out  and  his  nose  was  bleeding  profusely. 
"Never  mind,"  whispered  the  trapper  to  Fred,  "you  must  win  this  race 
if  your  whole  family  dies — all  right,  long  and  quick  now."  The  young 
man  obeyed.  He  threw  the  full  force  of  his  strength  on  the  oars.  The 
sudden  vigor  was  too  much  for  the  wood;  there  was  a  crash  and  the 
guide  was  thrown  on  his  side.  The  trapper  was  now  thoroughly 
aroused.  The  boats  were  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  home-line  and 
the  Lad  was  fully  fifteen  astern.  The  roar  of  the  crowd  was  deafen- 
ing, but  through  it  a  voice  arose:  "John  Norton,  now  is  your  time, 
pull." 

The  old  man  gathered  himself  for  a  supreme  effort,  and  then  oc- 
curred a  catastrophe  so  overwhelming  that  it  hushed  the  roar  of  the 
crowd.  He  had  torn  the  rowlocks  from  the  gunnels.  For  a  moment 
there  was  silence;  even  the  professionals  intermitted  a  stroke;  but  the 
Lad  turned  his  face  ahead.  The  old  man  arose  and  stood  erect  in 
the  boat.  He  shook  the  heavy  oars  in  the  air  as  if  they  had  been  reeds 
and  shouted  in  a  voice  that  sounded  awful  in  its  intensity:  "Now, 
Lad,  row  for  the  sake  of  John  Norton,  and  save  his  gray  hairs  from 
shame.  Pull  with  every  ounce  of  strength  the  Almighty  has  given 
you,  or  the  honor  of  the  woods  is  gone." 

It  was  worth  a  thousand  miles  of  travel  and  a  year  of  life  to  see 
what  happened.  The  Lad  suddenly  sat  erect  and  his  stroke  lengthened 
to  the  full  reach  of  oar  and  arm.  His  boat  seemed  to  spring  into  the 
air,  it  flew  on  the  top  of  the  water,  and,  as  it  passed  the  trapper,  he 
shouted  wildly,  "Go  it,  Lad,  go  it,  Lad,  the  honor  of  the  woods  be  on 
ye !  Give  it  to  'em,  give  it  to  'em,  ye'll  beat  'em  yit,  sure  as  judgment 
day." 

Except  his  voice,  not  a  sound  was  heard.  Men  clutched  their  fists 
till  the  nails  cut  the  skin  of  their  palms.     One  of  the  professionals 


202  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

fainted  unnoticed,  another  threw  up  his  oars,  crazed  by  the  excitement, 
while  the  third  pulled  in  grim  desperation;  but  he  pulled  in  vain,  for 
the  Lad's  boat  caught  him  within  fifty  feet  of  the  line  and  shot  across 
it  half  a  length  to  the  front.  And  then  there  arose  such  a  shout  as 
had  not  been  heard  that  day.  "Three  cheers  for  the  Lad,  three  cheers 
for  the  Lad," — and  the  honor  of  the  woods  was  saved. 


TRAVERS'*  FIRST  HUNT 
By  Richard  Harding  Davis 

Young  Travers,  who  had  been  engaged  to  a  girl  down  on  Long 
Island  for  the  last  three  months,  only  met  her  father  and  brother  a  few 
weeks  before  the  day  set  for  the  wedding. 

The  brother  was  a  master  of  hounds  near  South  Hampton;  the 
father  and  son  talked  horse  all  day  and  until  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  they  owned  fast  thoroughbreds,  and  entered  them  at  Sheeps- 
head  Bay,  and  other  race  tracks. 

Old  Mr.  Paddock,  the  father  of  the  girl,  had  often  said  that  when 
a  young  man  asked  for  his  daughter's  hand,  he  would  ask  him  in  re- 
turn, not  if  he  lived  straight,  but  if  he  could  ride  straight;  and  that 
on  his  answering  in  the  affirmative,  depended  her  parent's  consent. 

Travers  had  met  Miss  Paddock  and  her  mother  in  Europe.  He  was 
invited  to  their  place  in  the  fall  when  the  hunting  season  opened,  and 
had  spent  the  evening  most  pleasantly  and  satisfactorily  with  his  fiancee 
in  the  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  But  as  soon  as  the  women  had 
gone,  young  Paddock  joined  him  and  said:     "You  ride,  of  course?" 

Travers  had  never  ridden,  but  had  been  prompted  what  to  answer 
by  Miss  Paddock,  and  so  said  there  was  nothing  he  liked  better.  As 
he  expressed  it,  he  would  rather  ride  than  sleep. 

"That's  good!"  said  Paddock.  "I'll  give  you  a  mount  on  Satan 
to-morrow  morning  at  the  meet.  He  is  a  bit  nasty  at  the  start  of 
the  season,  and  ever  since  he  killed  Wallis,  the  second  groom,  last 
year,  none  of  us  care  much  to  ride  him;  but  you  can  manage  him,  no 
doubt.     He'll  just  carry  your  weight." 

Mr.  Travers  dreamed  that  night  of  taking  large,  desperate  leaps  into 
space  on  a  wild  horse  that  snorted  forth  flames,  and  that  rose  at  solid 
stone  walls  as  though  they  were  hay-racks.  He  was  tempted  to  say 
he  was  ill  in  the  morning,  which  was,  considering  the  state  of  his 
mind,  more  or  less  true,  but  concluded  as  he  would  have  to  ride 


DRAMATIC  203 

sooner  or  later  during  his  visit,  and  if  he  died  breaking  his  neck,  it 
would  be  in  a  good  cause,  he  determined  to  do  his  best. 

He  didn't  want  to  ride  at  all  for  two  excellent  reasons :  First,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  live  for  Miss  Paddock's  sake,  and  second,  because 
he  wanted  to  live  for  his  own  sake. 

The  next  morning  was  a  most  forbidding  and  doleful  looking  morn- 
ing, and  young  Travers  had  great  hopes  that  the  meet  would  be  de- 
clared off,  but  just  as  he  lay  in  doubts  the  servant  knocked  at  his 
door  with  his  riding  things  and  his  hot  water. 

He  came  down-stairs  looking  very  miserable  indeed.  Satan  had 
been  taken  to  the  place  where  they  were  to  meet,  and  Travers  viewed 
him  on  his  arrival  there  with  a  sickening  sense  of  fear  as  he  saw  him 
pulling  three  grooms  off  their  feet. 

Travers  decided  that  he  would  stay  with  his  feet  on  solid  earth  just 
as  long  as  he  could,  and  when  the  hounds  were  thrown  off  and  the  rest 
had  started  at  a  gallop,  he  waited,  under  pretense  of  adjusting  his 
gaiters,  until  they  were  well  away.  Then  he  clenched  his  teeth, 
crammed  his  hat  down  over  his  ears,  and  scrambled  up  on  the  saddle. 
His  feet  fell  quite  by  accident  into  the  stirrups,  and  the  next  moment 
he  was  off  after  the  others,  with  an  indistinct  feeling  that  he  was  on 
a  locomotive  that  was  jumping  the  ties. 

Satan  was  in  among  and  had  passed  the  other  horses  in  less  than 
five  minutes,  and  was  so  near  the  hounds  that  the  whippers-in  gave  a 
cry  of  warning.  But  Travers  could  just  as  soon  have  pulled  a  boat 
back  that  was  going  over  the  Niagara  Falls  as  Satan,  and  it  was  only 
that  the  hounds  were  well  ahead  that  saved  them  from  having  Satan 
run  them  down. 

Travers  had  to  hold  to  the  saddle  with  his  left  hand  to  keep  himself 
from  falling  off,  and  sawed  and  sawed  on  the  reins  with  his  right. 
He  shut  his  eyes  whenever  Satan  jumped,  and  never  knew  how  he 
happened  to  stick  on;  but  he  did  stick  on,  and  was  so  far  ahead  that 
in  the  misty  morning  no  one  could  see  how  badly  he  rode.  As  it  was 
for  daring  and  speed  he  led  the  field,  and  not  even  young  Paddock 
was  near  him  from  the  start. 

There  was  a  broad  stream  in  front  of  him — and  a  hill  just  on  the 
other  side.  No  one  had  ever  tried  to  take  this  at  a  jump,  it  was  con- 
sidered more  of  a  swim  than  anything  else,  and  the  hunters  always 
crossed  it  by  the  bridge  on  the  left.  Travers  saw  the  bridge  and  tried 
to  jerk  Satan's  head  in  that  direction,  but  Satan  kept  right  on  as 
straight  as  an  express  train  over  the  prairies.  Fences  and  trees  and 
furrows  passed  by  and  under  Travers  like  a  panorama  run  by  elec- 


204  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

tricity,  and  he  only  breathed  by  accident.  They  went  on  at  the  stream 
and  the  hill  beyond  as  though  they  were  riding  on  a  stretch  of  turf, 
and  though  the  whole  field  sent  up  a  shout  of  warning  and  dismay, 
Travers  could  only  gasp  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered  the  fate 
of  the  second  groom  and  shivered. 

Then  the  horse  rose  like  a  rocket,  lifting  Travers  so  high  in  the  air 
that  he  thought  Satan  would  never  come  down  again,  but  he  did  come 
down  with  his  feet  bunched  on  the  opposite  bank. 

The  next  instant  he  was  up  and  over  the  hill  and  stopped,  panting, 
in  the  center  of  the  pack  that  was  snarling  and  snapping  around  the 
fox.  And  then  Travers  showed  that  he  was  a  thorough-bred,  even 
though  he  could  not  ride,  for  he  hastily  fumbled  for  his  cigar  case,  and 
when  the  others  came  pounding  up  over  the  hill,  they  saw  him  seated 
nonchalantly  on  his  saddle,  puffing  critically  at  his  cigar  and  giving 
Satan  patronizing  pats  on  his  head. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  old  Mr.  Paddock  to  his  daughter  as  they  rode 
back,  "if  you  love  that  young  man  and  want  to  keep  him,  make  him 
promise  to  give  up  riding.  A  more  reckless  and  more  brilliant  horse- 
man I  have  never  seen;  he  took  that  double  jump  at  the  gate  and  at 
the  stream  like  a  centaur,  but  he  will  break  his  neck  sooner  or  later, 
and  he  ought  to  be  stopped."  Young  Paddock  was  so  delighted  with 
his  future  brother-in-law's  riding  that  that  night  in  the  smoking  room 
he  made  him  a  present  of  Satan  before  all  the  men. 

"No,"  said  Travers  gloomily,  "I  can't  take  him;  your  sister  has 
asked  me  to  give  up  what  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  next  to  her- 
self, and  that  is  my  riding;  you  see  she  is  absurdly  anxious  for  my 
safety,  and  she  has  asked  me  never  to  ride  again,  and  I  have  given 
my  word." 

A  chorus  of  sympathetic  remonstrances  rose  from  the  men. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Travers,  "but  it  just  shows  what  sacrifices  a 
man  will  make  for  the  woman  he  loves." 

MARY'S  NIGHT  RIDE 

By  George  W.  Cable 

Mary  Richling,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  was  the  wife  of  John 
Richling,  a  resident  of  New  Orleans.  At  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Civil  War  she  went  to  visit  her  parents  in  Milwaukee.  About  the 
time  of  the  bombardment  of  New  Orleans,  she  received  news  of  the 
dangerous  illness  of  her  husband,  and  decided  at  once  to  reach  his 


DRAMATIC  205 

i 

bedside,  if  possible.  Taking  with  her  her  baby  daughter,  a  child  of 
three  years,  she  proceeded  southward,  where,  after  several  unsuccess- 
ful attempts  to  secure  a  pass,  she  finally  determined  to  break  through 
the  lines. 

About  the  middle  of  the  night  Mary  Richling  was  sitting  very  still 
and  upright  on  a  large,  dark  horse  that  stood  champing  his  Mexican 
bit  in  the  black  shadow  of  a  great  oak.  Mary  held  by  the  bridle  an- 
other horse,  whose  naked  saddle-tree  was  empty.  A  few  steps  in  front 
of  her  the  light  of  the  full  moon  shone  almost  straight  down  upon  a 
narrow  road  that  just  there  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  woods  on 
either  side  and  divided  into  a  main  right  fork  and  a  much  smaller  one 
that  curved  around  to  Mary's  left.  Off  in  the  direction  of  the  main 
fork  the  sky  was  all  aglow  with  camp-fires.  Only  just  here  on  the  left 
there  was  a  cool  and  grateful  darkness. 

She  lifted  her  head  alertly.  A  twig  crackled  under  a  tread,  and  the 
next  moment  a  man  came  out  of  the  bushes  on  the  left  and,  without 
a  word,  took  the  bridle  of  the  led  horse  from  her  fingers  and  vaulted 
into  the  saddle.  The  hand  that  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  cantle 
grasped  a  navy-six.  He  was  dressed  in  dull  homespun,  but  he  was 
the  same  who  had  been  dressed  in  blue.  He  turned  his  horse  and  led 
the  way  down  the  lesser  road. 

"If  we'd  of  gone  three  hundred  yards  further,  we'd  a  run  into  the 
pickets.  I  went  nigh  enough  to  see  the  videts  settin'  on  their  horses 
in  the  main  road.  This  here  ain't  no  road;  it  just  goes  up  to  a  nigger 
quarters.     I've  got  one  of  the  niggers  to  show  us  the  way." 

''Where  is  he?"  whispered  Mary,  but,  before  her  companion  could 
answer,  a  tattered  form  moved  from  behind  a  bush  a  little  in  advance 
and  started  ahead  in  the  path,  walking  and  beckoning.  Presently  they 
turned  into  a  clear,  open  forest  and  followed  the  long,  rapid,  swinging 
strides  of  the  negro  for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  they  halted  on  the  bank 
of  a  deep,  narrow  stream.  The  negro  made  a  motion  for  them  to 
keep  well  to  the  right  when  they  should  enter  the  water.  The  white 
man  softly  lifted  Alice  to  his  arms,  and  directed  and  assisted  Mary  to 
kneel  in  her  saddle  with  her  skirts  gathered  carefully  under  her;  so 
they  went  down  into  the  cold  stream,  the  negro  first  with  arms  out- 
stretched above  the  flood,  then  Mary  and  then  the  white  man,  or  let 
us  say  plainly  the  spy,  with  the  unawakened  child  on  his  breast.  And 
so  they  rose  out  of  it  on  the  farther  side  without  a  shoe  or  garment 
wet,  save  the  rags  of  their  dark  guide. 

Again  they  followed  him  along  a  line  of  stake-and-rider  fence,  with 
the  woods  on  one  side  and  the  bright  moonlight  flooding  a  field  of 


206  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

young  cotton  on  the  other.  Now  they  heard  the  distant  baying  of 
housedogs,  now  the  doleful  call  of  the  chuckwill's  widow,  and  once 
Mary's  blood  turned  for  an  instant  to  ice  at  the  unearthly  shriek  of 
a  hoot-owl  just  above  her  head.  At  length  they  found  themselves 
in  a  dim,  narrow  road,  and  the  negro  stopped. 

"Dess  keep  dis  yer  road  fo'  'bout  half  mile  an'  yo'  strike  'pon  de 
broad  main  road.  Tek  de  right,  an'  you  go  whar  yo'  fancy  take  you. 
Good-by,  Miss.  Good-by,  Boss ;  don't  yo'  f ergit  yo'  promise  to  tek  me 
throo  to  de  Yankees  when  you  come  back.  I  feered  yo'  gwine  fergit 
it,  Boss." 

The  spy  said  he  would  not,  and  they  left  him.  The  half  mile  was 
soon  passed,  though  it  turned  out  to  be  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  at 
length  Mary's  companion  looked  back  as  they  rode  single  file  with 
Mary  in  the  rear,  and  said  softly,  "There's  the  road." 

As  they  entered  it  and  turned  to  the  right,  Mary,  with  Alice  in  her 
arms,  moved  somewhat  ahead  of  her  companion,  her  indifferent  horse- 
manship having  compelled  him  to  drop  back  to  avoid  a  prickly  bush. 
His  horse  was  just  quickening  his  pace  to  regain  the  lost  position  when 
a  man  sprang  up  from  the  ground  on  the  farther  side  of  the  highway, 
snatched  a  carbine  from  the  earth  and  cried,  "Haiti" 

The  dark,  recumbent  forms  of  six  or  eight  others  could  be  seen  en- 
veloped in  their  blankets  lying  about  a  few  red  coals.  Mary  turned 
a  frightened  look  backward  and  met  the  eye  of  her  companion. 

"Move  a  little  faster,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  clear  voice.  As  he  did  so, 
she  heard  him  answer  the  challenge,  as  his  horse  trotted  softly  after 
hers. 

"Don't  stop  us,  my  friend;  we're  taking  a  sick  child  to  the  doctor." 

"Halt,  you  hound  1"  the  cry  rang  out;  and  as  Mary  glanced  back 
three  or  four  men  were  just  leaping  into  the  road.  But  she  saw  also 
her  companion,  his  face  suffused  with  an  earnestness  that  was  almost 
an  agony,  rise  in  his  stirrups  with  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders  all  gone, 
and  wildly  cry,  "Go  1"  She  smote  her  horse  and  flew.  Alice  woke 
and  screamed. 

The  report  of  a  carbine  rang  out  and  went  rolling  away  in  a  thousand 
echoes  through  the  wood.  Two  others  followed  in  sharp  succession, 
and  there  went  close  by  Mary's  ear  the  waspish  whine  of  a  minie-ball. 
At  the  same  moment  she  recognized — once,  twice,  thrice — just  at  her 
back,  where  the  hoofs  of  her  companion's  horse  were  clattering,  the 
tart  rejoinders  of  his  navy  six. 

"Go  !  lay  low  !  lay  low  I  cover  the  child  1"  But  his  words  were*  need- 
less.    With  head  bowed  forward  and  form  crouched  over  the  crying, 


DRAMATIC  207 

clinging  child,  with  slackened  rein  and  fluttering  dress,  and  sunbonnet 
and  loosened  hair  blown  back  upon  her  shoulders,  Mary  was  riding  for 
life  and  liberty  and  her  husband's  bedside. 

"Go  on!  go  on!  They're  saddling  up!  Go!  Go  I  We're  going  to 
make  it!    Go-oo!"    And  they  made  it. 

PEABODY'S  LEAP 

A  LEGEND  OF  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN 

Many  are  the  places,  scattered  over  the  face  of  our  beautiful  coun- 
try, whose  wild  and  picturesque  scenery  is  worthy  of  the  painter's 
pencil  or  the  poet's  pen.  Some  of  them,  which  were  once  celebrated 
for  their  rich  stores  of  "legendary  lore,"  are  now  only  sought  to  view 
their  natural  scenery,  while  the  traditions  which  formerly  gave  them 
celebrity  are  buried  in  oblivion.  Such  is  the  scene  of  the  following 
adventure — a  romantic  glen,  bounded  on  the  north  side  by  a  high 
and  rocky  hill  which  stretches  itself  some  distance  into  Lake  Champlain, 
terminating  in  a  precipice,  some  thirty  feet  in  height,  and  once  known 
by  the  name  of  "Peabody's  Leap." 

At  the  time  of  this  adventure,  Timothy  Peabody  was  the  only  white 
man  that  lived  within  fifty  miles  of  the  place,  and  his  was  the  daring 
spirit  that  achieved  it.  In  an  attack  on  one  of  the  frontier  settlements 
his  family  had  all  been  massacred  by  the  merciless  savages,  and  he 
had  sworn  that  their  death  should  be  avenged.  The  better  to  ac- 
complish this  dread  purpose,  he  had  removed  to  this  solitary  place  and 
constructed  the  rude  shelter  in  which  he  dwelt,  till  the  blasts  of  winter 
drove  him  to  the  homes  of  his  fellow-men,  again  to  renew  the  contest 
when  spring  had  awakened  nature  into  life  and  beauty.  He  was  a 
man  who  possessed  much  rude  cunning,  combined  with  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  Indian  habits,  by  which  he  had  always  been  enabled  to 
avoid  the  snares  of  his  subtle  enemies.  Often  when  they  had  come 
with  a  party  to  take  him,  he  escaped  their  lures,  and  after  destroying 
his  hut,  on  their  return  homeward  some  of  their  boldest  warriors  were 
picked  off  by  his  unerring  aim — or,  on  arriving  at  their  settlement, 
they  learned  that  one  of  their  swiftest  hunters  had  been  ambushed  by 
him,  and  fallen  a  victim  of  his  deadly  rifle.  He  had  lived  in  this  way 
for  several  years,  and  had  so  often  baffled  them,  that  they  had  at  last 
become  weary  of  the  pursuit,  and,  for  some  time,  had  left  him  un- 
molested. 

About  this  time,  a  party  of  Indians  made  a  descent  on  one  of  the 


208  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

small  settlements,  and  had  taken  three  men  prisoners,  whom  they  were 
carrying  home  to  sacrifice  for  the  same  number  of  their  men  that 
had  been  shot  by  Peabody.  It  was  towards  the  close  of  day  when 
they  passed  his  abode;  most  of  the  party  in  advance  of  the  prisoners, 
who,  with  their  hands  tied,  and  escorted  by  five  or  six  Indians,  were 
almost  wearied  out  by  their  long  march,  and  but  just  able  to  crawl 
along.  He  had  observed  this  advance  guard,  and  let  them  pass  un- 
molested, for  he  suspected  there  were  prisoners  in  the  rear,  and  in- 
tended to  try  some  "Yankee  trick"  to  effect  their  rescue.  He  ac- 
cordingly followed  on  in  the  trail  of  the  party,  keeping  among  the 
thick  trees  which  on  either  side  skirted  the  path.  He  had  proceeded 
but  a  short  distance  before  he  heard  the  sharp  report  of  a  rifle  ap- 
parently very  near  him,  and  which  he  knew  must  be  one  of  the  Indians 
who  had  strolled  from  the  main  body  to  procure  some  game  for  their 
evening  meal.  From  his  acquaintance  with  their  habits  and  language, 
he  only  needed  a  disguise  to  enable  him  to  join  with  the  party  if 
necessary  and,  aided  by  the  darkness  which  was  fast  approaching, 
with  but  little  danger  of  detection.  The  resolution  was  quickly  formed, 
and  as  quickly  put  into  operation,  to  kill  this  Indian  and  procure  his 
dress. 

He  had  got  but  a  few  paces  before  he  discovered  his  intended  victim, 
who  had  just  finished  loading  his  rifle.  To  stand  forth  and  boldly 
confront  him  would  give  the  savage  an  equal  chance,  and  if  Tim 
proved  the  best  shot,%the  party  on  hearing  the  report  of  two  rifles  at 
once  would  be  alarmed  and  commence  a  pursuit.  The  chance  was, 
therefore,  two  to  one  against  him,  and  he  was  obliged  to  contrive  a 
way  to  make  the  Indian  fire  first.  Planting  himself,  then,  behind  a 
large  tree,  he  took  off  his  fox-skin  cap,  and  placing  it  on  the  end  of 
his  rifle,  began  to  move  it  to  and  fro.  The  Indian  quickly  discovered 
it,  and  was  not  at  a  loss  to  recollect  the  owner  by  the  cap.  Knowing 
how  often  the  white  warrior  had  eluded  them,  he  determined  to 
despatch  him  at  once,  and  without  giving  him  notice  of  his  dangerous 
proximity,  he  instantly  raised  his  rifle,  and  its  contents  went  whizzing 
through  the  air.  The  ball  just  touched  the  bark  of  the  tree,  and 
pierced  the  cap,  which  rose  suddenly  like  the  death-spring  of  the 
beaver,  and  then  fell  amid  the  bushes.  The  Indian,  like  a  true  sports- 
man, thinking  himself  sure  of  his  victim,  did  not  go  to  pick  up  his 
game  till  he  had  reloaded  his  piece,  and  dropping  it  to  the  ground,  was 
calmly  proceeding  in  the  operation,  when  Timothy  as  calmly  stepped 
from  his  hiding-place,  exclaiming— -"Now,  you  tarnal  kritter,  say  yer 
prayers  as  fast  as  ever  you  can." 


DRAMATIC  209 

This  was  a  short  notice  for  the  poor  Indian.  Before  him,  and 
scarcely  ten  paces  distant,  stood  the  tall  form  of  Peabody,  motionless 
as  a  statue — his  rifle  to  his  shoulder — his  finger  on  the  trigger,  and  his 
deadly  aim  firmly  fixed  on  him.  He  was  about  to  run,  but  he  had  not 
time  to  turn  around,  ere  the  swift-winged  messenger  had  taken  his 
flight;  the  ball  pierced  his  side — he  sprang  in  the  air,  and  fell  lifeless 
on  the  ground. 

No  time  was  now  to  be  lost.  Peabody  immediately  proceeded  to 
strip  the  dead  body  and  to  array  himself  in  the  accouterments,  con- 
sisting of  a  hunting  shirt,  a  pair  of  moccasins,  or  leggins,  and  the 
wampum  belt  and  knife.  A  little  of  the  blood  besmeared  on  his 
sunburnt  countenance  served  for  the  red  paint,  and  it  would  have  taken 
a  keen  eye  in  the  gray  twilight  and  thick  gloom  of  the  surrounding 
forest  to  have  detected  the  counterfeit  Indian.  Shouldering  his  rifle, 
he  again  started  in  pursuit,  and  followed  the  band  till  they  arrived  in 
the  glen,  where  their  canoes  were  secreted.  Here  they  stopped,  and 
began  to  make  preparations  for  their  expected  supper,  previous  to  their 
embarkation  for  the  opposite  shore.  The  canoes  were  launched  and 
their  baggage  deposited  in  them.  A  fire  was  blazing  brightly  and  the 
party  were  walking  around,  impatiently  waiting  the  return  of  the 
hunter. 

The  body  of  Timothy  was  safely  deposited  behind  a  fallen  tree,  where 
he  could  see  every  motion,  and  hear  every  word  spoken  in  the  circle. 
Here  he  had  been  about  half  an  hour.     "Night  had  drawn  her  sable 
curtain  around  the  scene ;"  or,  in  other  words,  it  was  dark.    The  moon 
shone  fitfully  through  the  clouds  which  almost  covered  the  horizon, 
only  serving  occasionally  to  render  the  darkness  visible.    The  Indians 
now  began  to  evince  manifest  signs  of  impatience  for  the  return  of 
their  comrade.    They  feared  that  a  party  of  the  whites  had  followed 
them  and  taken  him  prisoner,  and  at  last  resolved  to  go  in  search 
of  him.    The  plan,  which  was  fortunately  overheard  by  Timothy,  was 
to  put  the  captives  into  one  of  the  canoes,  under  the  care  of  five  of 
their  number,  who  were  to  secrete  themselves  in  case  of  an  attack, 
massacre  the  prisoners,  and  then  go  to  the  assistance  of  their  brethren. 
As  soon  as  the  main  body  had  started,   Peabody  cautiously   crept 
from  his  hiding-place  to  the  water  and,  sliding  in  feet  foremost,  moved 
along  on  his  back,  his  face  just  above  the  surface,  to  the  canoe  which 
contained  the  rifles  of  the  guard.     The  priming  was  quickly  removed 
from  these,  and  their  powder-horns  emptied,  replaced,  and  the  prison- 
ers given  notice  of  their  intended  rescue,  at  the  same  time  warning 
them  not  to   show   themselves   above  the  gunwale  till   they  were  in 


210  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

safety.  He  next,  with  his  Indian  knife,  separated  the  thong  which 
held  the  canoe  to  the  shore,  intending  to  swim  off  with  it  till  he  had 
got  far  enough  to  avoid  observation,  then  get  in,  and  paddle  for  the 
nearest  place  where  a  landing  could  be  effected.  All  this  was  but  the 
work  of  a  moment,  and  he  was  slowly  moving  off  from  the  shore,  as 
yet  unobserved  by  the  guard,  who  little  expected  an  attack  from  this 
side.  But,  unfortunately,  his  rifle  had  been  left  behind,  and  he  was 
resolved  not  to  part  with  "Old  Plumper,"  as  he  called  it,  without  at 
least  one  effort  to  recover  it.  He  immediately  gave  the  captives  notice 
of  his  intention,  and  directed  them  to  paddle  slowly  and  silently  out, 
and  in  going  past  the  headland,  to  approach  as  near  as  possible,  and 
there  await  his  coming. 

The  guard  by  this  time  had  secreted  themselves,  and  one  of  the 
number  had  chosen  the  same  place  which  Timothy  himself  had  previ- 
ously occupied,  near  which  he  had  left  his  old  friend.  He  had  almost 
got  to  the  spot,  when  the  Indian  discovered  the  rifle,  grasped  it,  and 
springing  upon  his  feet,  gave  the  alarm  to  his  companions.  Quick 
as  thought,  Tim  was  upon  him,  seized  the  rifle,  and  wrenched  it  from 
him  with  such  violence  as  to  throw  him  breathless  to  the  ground. 
The  rest  of  the  Indians  were  alarmed,  and,  sounding  the  war-whoop, 
rushed  upon  him. 

It  was  a  standard  maxim  with  Timothy,  that  "a  good  soldier  never 
runs  till  he  is  obliged  to,"  and  he  now  found  that  he  should  be  under 
the  necessity  of  suiting  his  practice  to  his  theory.  There  was  no  time 
for  deliberation;  he  instantly  knocked  down  the  foremost  with  the 
butt  of  his  rifle,  and  bounded  away  through  the  thicket  like  a  startled 
deer.  The  three  remaining  Indians  made  for  the  canoe  in  which  the 
rifles  were  deposited,  already  rendered  harmless  by  the  precaution  of 
Timothy.  This  gave  him  a  good  advantage,  which  was  not  altogether 
unnecessary,  as  he  was  much  encumbered  with  his  wet  clothes,  and 
before  he  reached  the  goal  he  could  hear  them  snapping  the  dry  twigs 
close  behind  him.  The  main  body  likewise  got  the  alarm,  and  were 
but  a  short  distance  from  him  when  he  reached  the  headland.  Those 
who  were  nearest  he  did  not  fear,  unless  they  came  to  close  action, 
and  he  resolved  to  send  one  more  of  them  to  his  long  home  before 
he  leaped  from  the  precipice. 

"It's  a  burning  shame  to  wet  so  much  powder,"  he  exclaimed;  "I'll 
have  one  more  pop  at  the  tarnal  red-skins."  Tim's  position  was  quickly 
arranged  to  put  his  threat  in  execution.  His  rifle  was  presented,  his 
eye  glanced  along  its  barrel,  and  the  first  one  that  showed  his  head 


DRAMATIC  211 

received  its  deadly  contents.  Another,  and  still  another  Indian,  were 
thus  disposed  of,  and  then,  taking  a  deep  breath,  Timothy  made  the 
leap.  The  water  was  deep  and  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  came 
to  the  surface,  but  in  a  moment  he  struck  out  for  the  canoe.  The 
whole  party  of  Indians  by  this  time  had  come  up,  and  commenced  a 
brisk  fire  upon  the  fugitives.  Tim  stood  erect  in  the  canoe,  shouting 
in  the  voice  of  a  stentor,  "Ye'd  better  take  care,  ye'll  spile  the  skiff. 
Old  Plumper's  safe,  and  you'll  feel  him  yet,  I  tell  ye  1" 

Peabody  and  the  rescued  prisoners  were  quickly  lost  in  darkness, 
and,  taking  a  small  circuit,  effected  a  landing  in  safety.  Many  a  man's 
life  verified  his  last  threat,  and  Peabody  lived  to  a  good  old  age, 
having  often  related  to  his  friends  and  neighbors  the  adventure  which 
gave  to  this  place  the  name  of  "Peabody's  Leap." 

DONA  MARIA'S  DEFIANCE 

[Philip  the  Second,  king  of  Spain,  murdered  his  own  brother,  Don 
John  of  Austria.  Dona  Maria  Dolores  de  Mendoza,  betrothed  to  the 
slain  man,  discovers  that  her  innocent  father  has  taken  the  blame  upon 
himself  for  this  atrocious  crime  in  order  that  his  king  might  not  be 
branded  before  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Thus  the  beautiful  woman 
comes  before  her  king  with  a  great  purpose:  First,  to  have  her 
father  released  from  prison;  and  second,  to  express  her  personal 
hatred  for  the  murderer  of  her  lover.  The  king  is  alone  when  she 
enters.] 

Philip.  Be  seated,  Dona  Dolores.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come, 
for  I  have  much  to  say  to  you  and  some  questions  to  ask  of  you.  In 
my  life  I  have  suffered  more  than  most  men  in  being  bereaved  of  the 
persons  to  whom  I  have  been  most  sincerely  attached.  One  after  an- 
other those  that  I  have  loved  have  been  taken  from  me,  until  I  am  al- 
most alone  in  the  world  that  is  so  largely  mine.  My  sorrows  have 
reached  their  crown  and  culmination  to-day  in  the  death  of  my  dear 
brother.  I  know  why  you  have  come  to  me ;  you  wish  to  intercede  for 
your  father.    It  is  right  that  you  come  to  me  yourself. 

Dona  Dolores.     I  ask  justice,  not  mercy,  sire. 

Philip.     Your  father  shall  have  both,  for  they  are  compatible. 

Dona  Dolores.  He  needs  no  mercy,  for  he  has  done  no  wrong. 
Your  majesty  knows  that  as  well  as  I. 

Philip.     I  cannot  guess  what  you  know  or  do  not  know. 

Dona  Dolores.     I  know  the  truth. 


212  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Philip.  I  wish  I  did.  Tell  me ;  you  may  be  able  to  help  me  sift  it. 
What  do  you  know? 

Dona  Dolores.  I  was  close  behind  the  door.  I  heard  every  word. 
I  heard  your  sword  drawn  and  I  heard  Don  John  fall,  and  then  it 
was  some  time  before  I  heard  my  father's  voice  taking  the  blame  upon 
himself  lest  it  should  be  said  that  a  king  had  murdered  his  own 
brother  in  his  room  unarmed.  Is  that  the  truth,  or  not?  I  came  in 
and  found  him  dead.  He  was  unarmed,  murdered  without  a  chance 
for  his  life,  and  my  father  took  the  blame  to  save  you  from  the 
monstrous  accusation.  Confess  that  what  I  say  is  true.  I  am  a 
Spanish  woman  and  would  not  see  my  country  branded  before  the 
world  with  the  shame  of  your  royal  murders ;  and  if  you  will  confess 
and  save  my  father  I  will  keep  your  secret  for  my  country's  sake.  If 
you  will  not,  by  the  God  that  made  you  I  will  tell  all  Spain 
what  you  are,  and  the  men  who  loved  Don  John  of  Austria  will 
rise  and  take  your  blood  for  his  blood,  though  it  be  blood  royal,  and 
you  shall  die  as  you  killed,  like  the  coward  you  are.  You  will  not? 
Then— 

Philip.  No,  No  I  ,  Stay  here ;  you  must  not  go.  What  do  you  want 
me  to  say? 

Dona  Dolores.    Say,  "You  have  spoken  the  truth." 

Philip.  Stay — yes — it  is  true — I  did  it — for  Spain —  For  God's 
mercy  do  not  betray  me. 

Dona  Dolores.  That  is  not  all.  That  was  for  me,  that  I  might  hear 
the  words  from  your  own  lips. 

Philip.    What  more  do  you  want  of  me? 

Dona  Dolores.  My  father's  freedom  and  safety.  I  must  have  an 
order  for  his  instant  release.  Send  for  him.  Let  him  come  here  at 
once  as  a  free  man. 

Philip.  That  is  impossible.  He  has  confessed  the  deed  before  the 
whole  court.  He  must  at  least  have  a  trial.  You  forget  to  whom  you 
are  speaking. 

Dona  Dolores.  I  am  not  asking  anything  of  your  majesty.  I  am 
dictating  terms  to  my  lover's  murderer. 

Philip.  You  shall  not  impose  your  insolence  on  me  any  further.  I 
shall  call  help — 

Dona  Dolores.  Call  whom  you  will,  you  cannot  save  yourself.  In 
ten  minutes  there  will  be  a  revolution  in  the  palace,  and  to-morrow  all 
Spain  will  be  on  fire  to  avenge  your  brother.  Spain  has  not  forgotten 
Don  Carlos  yet.  You  tortured  him  to  death.  There  are  those  alive 
who  saw  you  give  Queen  Isabel  the  draught  that  killed  her — with  your 


DRAMATIC  213 

own  hand.  Are  you  mad  enough  to  think  that  no  one  knows  these 
things ;  that  your  spies  who  spy  on  others  do  not  spy  on  you ;  that  you 
alone  of  all  mankind  can  commit  every  crime  with  impunity? 

Philip.    Take  care,  girl!     Take  care! 

Dona  Dolores.  Beware,  Don  Philip  of  Austria,  King  of  Spain  and 
half  the  world,  lest  a  girl's  voice  be  heard  above  yours,  and  a  girl's 
hand  loosen  the  foundations  of  your  throne.  Outside  this  door  are 
men  who  guess  the  truth  already ;  who  hate  you  as  they  hate  Satan ; 
and  who  loved  your  brother  as  every  living  being  loved  him,  except 
you.  One  moment  more.  Order  my  father  to  be  set  free,  or  I  will 
open  and  speak.  One  moment !  You  will  not  ?  It  is  too  late — you 
are  lost.  ...  If  you  ring  that  bell,  I  will  open  the  door.  Bring  the 
order  here  where  I  am  safe.  I  must  read  it  myself  before  I  am 
satisfied.  [Philip  writes  order.]  I  humbly  thank  your  majesty  and 
take  my  leave. — This  scene  is  arranged  from  the  novel  "In  the  Palace 
of  the  King,"  by  Marion  Crawford. 

THE  KING  AND  THE  POET 

[Francois  Villon,  the  poet,  fought  and  severely  wounded  the  trai- 
torous Grand  Constable  of  France,  Thibaut  d'Aussigny.  King  Louis 
XI,  in  a  whimsical  mood,  had  the  poet  elevated  to  his  opponent's  sta- 
tion instead  of  having  him  cast  into  prison  and  sentenced  to  death. 
Lady  Katherine,  hearing  that  Frangois  had  fought  with  Thibaut  d' 
Aussigny,  whom  she  hates  for  his  many  protestations  of  love,  and 
knowing  that  the  penalty  was  death,  pleads  for  the  poet's  life  at  the 
feet  of  him  whom  she  supposes  to  be  the  new  Grand  Constable,  but 
who  after  all  is  none  other  than  her  own  true  lover.] 

(The  morning  after  his  visit  to  the  Fircone  Tavern,  Louis  sat  in  his 
rose-garden,  pondering  upon  his  strange  adventure  of  the  night  before. 
A  favorite  astrologer  had  interpreted  his  dream  to  mean  that  one  in  the 
depths,  if  exalted,  would  be  of  great  service  to  him.  He  knew  how 
precarious  his  position  was,  how  unpopular  he  was  with  the  people,  how 
strong  were  the  forces  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  how  little  he  could 
depend  upon  the  allegiance  of  the  people  of  Paris  if  once  the  enemy 
set  foot  within  the  capital  city.  His  encounter  with  Villon  coming 
upon  the  heels  of  his  strange  dream,  and  followed  by  the  vague 
prophecies  of  the  star-gazer,  made  him  believe  that  the  fantastic 
rhymester  was  sent  to  him  in  a  time  of  peril  to  be  of  support  to  his 
throne. 

A  heavy  tread  behind  him  stirred  him  from  his  meditations.     Turn- 


214  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ing,  he  beheld  the  companion  of  his  adventure  the  previous  evening.) 

King.    Well,  Tristan? 

Tristan.  The  bird  has  flown,  sire.  Thibaut's  wound  was  much 
slighter  than  we  thought  last  night.  After  we  carried  him  to  his  house, 
he  made  his  escape  thence  in  disguise,  and  has,  as  I  believe,  fled  from 
Paris  to  join  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

King.  I  wish  the  Duke  joy  of  him.  He  is  more  dangerous  to  my 
enemy  when  he  is  on  my  enemy's  side.    And  my  rival  for  loyalty? 

Tristan.  Barber  Oliver  has  charge  of  him.  I  would  have  hanged 
the  rogue  out  of  hand. 

King.    The  stars  warn  me  that  I  need  this  rhyming  ragamuffin. 

Tristan.    Are  you  going  to  let  him  think  he  is  king,  sire? 

King.  Not  quite.  When  he  wakes,  he  is  to  be  assured  that  he  is 
the  Count  of  Montcorbier  and  Grand  Constable  of  France.  His  antics 
may  amuse  me,  his  lucky  star  may  serve  me,  and  his  winning  tongue 
may  help  to  avenge  me  on  a  certain  forward  maid,  who  disdained  me. 
Send  me  here  Oliver.     [Exit  Tristan.] 

[Katherine  comes  slowly  down  one  of  the  rose-ways.] 

King.    Where  are  you  going,  girl? 

Katherine.    To  her  majesty,  sire,  who  bade  me  gather  roses. 

King.  You  are  a  pretty  child.  You  might  have  had  a  king's  love. 
Well,  well,  you  were  a  fool.    Does  not  Thibaut  woo  you? 

Katherine.     He  professes  to  love  me,  sire,  and  I  profess  to  hate  him. 

King.    He  was  sorely  wounded  last  night  in  a  tavern  scuffle. 

Katherine.     Only  wounded,  sire? 

King.  Your  solicitude  is  adorable.  Be  of  cheer.  He  may  recover. 
And  we  have  clapped  hands  on  the  assassin.  He  shall  pay  the 
penalty. 

Katherine.  This  man  should  not  die,  sire.  Thibaut  d'Aussigny  was 
a  traitor,  a  villain — 

King.  If  this  knave's  life  interests  you,  plead  for  it  to  my  lord  the 
Grand  Constable. 

Katherine.    Thibaut  is  pitiless. 

King.  Thibaut  is  no  longer  in  office.  Try  your  luck  with  his  suc- 
cessor. 

Katherine.     His  rjame,  sire? 

King.  He  is  the  Count  of  Montcorbier.  He  is  a  stranger  in  our 
court,  but  he  has  found  a  lodging  in  my  heart.  He  came  under  safe 
conduct  from  the  south  last  night.  I  believe  he  will  serve  me  well, 
and  I  am  sure  he  will  always  be  lenient  to  loveliness.     Now  go,  girl, 


DRAMATIC  215 

or  my  wife  and  your  queen  will  be  wanting  her  roses.     [Exit  Kath- 

erine.] 

[Glancing  up  the  terrace,  he  perceives  the  figure   of  Oliver.    Behind 

Oliver  comes  a  little  cluster  of  pages,  and  behind  them  again  the  king 

can  see  a  shining  figure  in  cloth  of  gold.] 

King.  Here  comes  my  mountebank  as  pompous  as  if  he  were  born 
to  the  purple.  It  would  be  rare  sport  if  Mistress  Katherine  disdained 
Louis  to  decline  upon  this  beggar.  He  shall  hang  for  mocking  me. 
But  he  carries  himself  like  a  king  for  all  his  tatters  and  patches,  and 
he  shall  taste  of  splendor. 
[As  the  little  procession  descends  the  steps  into  the  rose-garden  the 

king  moves  swiftly  to  the  door  of  the  tower  and  enters.     There  is  a 

little  grating  in  the  door,  and  through  this  grating  the  king  now  peers 

with  infinite  entertainment  of  the  comedy  himself  had  planned.] 
[Master  Villon  is  greatly  changed.    The  barber's  own  handiwork  has 

cleansed  and  shaved  his  countenance.    He  is  as  sumptuously  attired 

as  if  he  were  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal.    It  is  plain  that  the  tricked 

out  poet  is  in  a  desperate  dilemma.    He  manages  to  bear  himself  with 

dignity  that  consorts  with  his  pomp.] 

Oliver.  Will  your  dignity  deign  to  linger  awhile  in  this  rose- 
arbor? 

Frangois.    My  dignity  will  deign  to  do  anything  you  suggest. 

Oliver.     May  we  take  our  leave,  monseigneur? 

Frangois.  You  may,  you  may — stay  one  moment.  You  know  this 
plaguy  memory  of  mine — what  a  forgetful  fellow  I  am.  Would  you 
mind  telling  me  again  who  I  happen  to  be? 

Oliver.  You  are  the  Count  of  Montcorbier,  monseigneur.  You  have 
just  arrived  in  Paris  from  the  court  of  Provence,  where  you  stood  in 
high  favor  with  the  king  of  that  country,  but  your  favor  is,  I  believe, 
greater  with  the  king  of  France,  for  he  has  been  pleased  to  make  you 
Grand  Constable  of  France.  It  is  his  majesty's  wish  that  you  contrive 
to  remember  this. 

Frangois.  Of  course,  it  was  most  foolish  of  me  to  forget.  Now,  I 
suppose,  good  master  long-toes,  that  a  person  in  my  exalted  rank  has 
a  good  deal  of  power,  influence,  authority,  and  what  not? 

Oliver.  With  the  king's  favor,  you  are  the  first  man  in  the 
realm. 

Frangois.  Quite  so!  Good  sir,  will  you  straightway  dispatch  some 
one  you  can  trust  with  a  handful  of  these  broad  pieces  to  the  mother 
of  Villon,  a  poor  old  woman  sorely  plagued  with  a  scapegrace  son? 


216  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Let  him  seek  her  out  and  give  her  these  coins  that  she  may  buy  her- 
self food,  clothes  and  fire. 

Oliver.    It  shall  be  done.     [Exit  all  but  Francois.] 
[As  soon  as  Villon  finds  himself  alone  he  looks  cautiously  around  him 

and  tries  to  recall  the  events  of  the  evening  before,  which  for  some 

fantastic  reason  seems  to  lie  centuries  behind  him.] 

Frangois.  Last  night  I  was  a  red-handed  outlaw,  sleeping  on  the 
straw  of  a  dungeon.  To-day  I  wake  in  a  royal  bed  and  my  varlets 
call  me  Monseigneur.  Either  I  am  mad  or  I  am  dreaming.  I  do  not 
think  I  am  mad,  for  I  know  in  my  heart  that  I  am  poor  Frangois 
Villon,  penniless  Master  of  Arts,  and  no  will-o'-the-wisp  Grand  Con- 
stable. Then  I  am  dreaming,  and  everything  has  been  and  is  a  dream. 
Then  the  king — popping  up  at  the  last  moment,  like  a  Jack-in-the-box 
—  a  dream.  These  clothes,  these  servants,  this  garden  —  dreams, 
dreams,  dreams.  I  shall  wake  presently  and  be  devilish  cold,  hungry 
and  shabby. 
[He  goes  to  the  golden  flagon  on  the  table,  pours  out  a  full  cup  of 

Burgundy,  and  watches  it  glow  in  the  sunlight.] 

Francois.     To  the  loveliest  lady  this  side  of  heaven  1     By  heaven,  my 
eyes  dazzle,  for  I  believe  I  see  her! 
[On  the  terrace  the  fair  girl  leans  and  looks  over  ai  the  garden  and  its 

golden  occupant.] 

Oliver.  My  lord,  there  is  a  lady  there  who  desires  to  speak  with 
you. 

Frangois.    I  desire  to  speak  with  her. 

[Oliver  enters  the  palace,  and  Katherine  approaches  Villon.] 

Katherine.    My  lord,  will  you  listen  to  a  distressed  lady? 

Frangois.    She  does  not  know  me. 

Katherine.  There  is  a  man  in  prison  at  this  hour  for  whom  I  would 
implore  your  clemency.  His  name  is  Frangois  Villon.  Last  night  he 
wounded  Thibaut  d'Aussigny.  The  penalty  is  death.  But  Thibaut 
was  a  traitor,  sold  to  Burgundy. 

Frangois.    Did  this  Villon  fight  him  for  his  treason? 

Katherine.    No!    He  fought  for  the  sake  of  a  woman. 

Frangois.    How  do  you  know  all  this? 

Katherine.  Because  I  was  the  woman.  This  man  had  seen  me, 
thought  he  loved  me,  sent  me  verses — . 

Frangois.    How  insolent  1 

Katherine.  It  was  insolence — and  yet  they  were  beautiful  verses. 
I  was  in  mortal  fear  of  Thibaut.     I  went  to  this  Villon  and  begged 


DRAMATIC  217 

him  to  kill  my  enemy.  He  backed  his  love-tale  with  his  sword — and 
he  lies  in  the  shadow  of  death.  It  is  not  just  that  he  should  suffer 
for  my  sin. 

Frangois.     Do  you  by  any  chance  love  this  Villon? 

Katherine.  Great  ladies  do  not  love  tavern  bravos.  But  I  pity  him 
and  I  do  not  want  him  to  die. 

Frangois.  If  I  had  stood  in  this  rascal's  shoes,  I  would  have  done 
as  he  did  for  your  sake. 

Katherine.  If  you  think  this,  you  should  grant  the  poor  knave  his 
freedom. 

Frangois.  That  brother  of  ballads  shall  go  free.  We  will  do  no 
more  than  banish  him  from  Paris.  Forget  that  such  a  slave  ever 
came  near  you. 

Katherine.    I  shall  remember  your  clemency. 

Frangois.  By  Saint  Venus,  I  envy  this  fellow  that  he  should  have 
won  your  thoughts.     I,  too,  would  die  to  serve  youl 

Katherine.     My  lord,  you  do  not  know  me. 

Frangois.  Did  he  know  you?  Yet  when  he  saw  you  he  loved  you 
and  made  bold  to  tell  you  so. 

Katherine.  His  words  were  of  no  more  account  than  the  wind  in 
the  leaves.  But  you  and  I  are  peers  and  the  words  we  change  have 
meanings. 

Frangois.    Would  you  pity  me  if  I  told  you  I  love  you? 

Katherine.  Heaven's  mercy,  how  fast  your  fancy  gallops.  I  care 
little  to  be  flattered  and  less  to  be  wooed,  and  I  swear  that  I  should 
be  very  hard  to  win. 

Frangois.  I  have  more  to  try  than  your  tap-room  bandit.  I  see 
what  he  saw;  I  love  what  he  loved. 

Katherine.    You  are  very  inflammable. 

Frangois.  My  fire  burns  to  ashes.  You  can  no  more  stay  me  from 
loving  you  than  you  can  stay  the  flowers  from  loving  the  soft  air, 
or  true  men  from  loving  honor,  or  heroes  from  loving  glory.  I  would 
rake  the  moon  from  heaven  for  you. 

Katherine.  That  promise  has  grown  rusty  since  Adam  first 
made  it  to  Eve.  There  is  a  rhyme  in  my  mind  about  moons  and 
lovers : 

Life  is  unstable, 

Love  may  uphold ; 
Fear  goes  in  sable, 

Courage  in  gold. 


218  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Mystery  covers 

Midnight  and  noon, 
Heroes  and  lovers 

Cry  for  the  moon. 

Francois.    What  doggerel ! 

Katherine.     It  is  divinity. 

Frangois.    Tell  me  what  I  may  do  to  win  your  favor? 

Katherine.  A  trifle.  Save  France  1  Oh,  that  a  man  would  come 
to  court  1  For  the  man  who  shall  trail  the  banners  of  Burgundy  in 
the  dust  for  the  king  of  France  to  walk  on  I  may  perhaps  have  favors. 

Frangois.    You  are  hard  to  please. 

Katherine.     My  hero  must  have  every  virtue  for  his  wreath,  every 
courage  for  his  coronet.     Farewell.     [Exit  Lady  Katherine.] 
[Enter  King  Louis.] 

King.    Good  afternoon,  Lord  Constable.    Does  power  taste  well? 

Frangois.     Nobly,  sire!     On  my  knees  let  me  thank  your  majesty. 

King.  Nonsense,  man ;  I'm  pleasing  myself.  You  sang  yourself  into 
splendor.     "If  Frangois  were  the  king  of  France,"  eh? 

Frangois.     Sire,  I  will  serve  you  as  never  king  was  served. 

King.    I  will  make  you  Grand  Constable  for  a  week. 

Frangois.    A  week,  sire?    A  week — 

King.  Even  so.  One  wonderful  week,  seven  delirious  days.  The 
world  was  made  in  seven  days.  Seven  days  of  power,  seven  days  of 
splendor,  seven  days  of  love. 

Frangois.  And  then  go  back  to  the  garret  and  the  kennel,  the  tavern 
and  the  brothel  1 

King.  No,  no,  not  exactly  1  You  don't  taste  the  full  force  of  the 
joke  yet.  Your  last  task  as  Grand  Constable  will  be  to  hang  Frangois 
Villon. 

Frangois.     Sire,  sire,  have  pity ! 

King.  You  may  have  your  week  of  wonder  if  you  wish,  but  if  you 
do,  by  my  word  as  king,  you  shall  swing  for  it. 

Frangois.     Sire,  what  have  I  done  that  you  should  torture  me  thus? 

King.  You  have  mocked  a  king  and  maimed  a  minister.  You  can't 
get  off  scot  free. 

Frangois.  Heaven  help  mel  Life,  squalid,  sordid,  but  still  life, 
with  its  tavern  corners  and  its  brute  pleasures  of  food  and  drink  and 
warm  sleep,  living  hands  to  hold,  and  living  laughter  to  gladden  me— 
or  a  week  of  cloth  of  gold,  of  glory,  of  love — and  then  a  shameful 
death ! 

King.     One  further  chance,  fellow.     If  the  Count  Montcorbier  win 


DRAMATIC  221 

the  heart  of   Lady  Katherine  within   the   week,   he   shall   escape   the 
gallows  and  carry  his  lady  love  where  he  please. 

Frangois.     On  your  word  of  honor,  sire? 

King.     My  word  is  my  honor,  Master  Frangois.     Well? 

Frangois.  Give  me  my  week  of  wonders  though  I  die  a  dog's  death 
at  the  end  of  it.  I  will  show  France  and  her  what  lay  in  the  heart 
of  a  poor  rhymester. 

King.     Spoken  like  a  man!     But  remember,  a  bargain's  a  bargain. 
If  you  fail  to  win  the  lady  you  must  keep  yourself  for  the  gallows. 
I  give  you  the  moon,  but  I  want  my  price  for  it. 
|  [Enter    Oliver.] 

Oliver.  Sire,  the  Burgundian  herald  attends  under  a  flag  of  truce 
with  a  message  for  your  majesty. 

King.  We  will  receive  him  here,  Oliver.  We  need  air  when  we 
hold  speech  with  Burgundy.     [Exit  Oliver.] 

King.    Listen  well  to  this  man's  words,  my  Lord  Constable. 
[Enter  Messenger.] 

King.    Your  message,   sir? 

Herald.  In  the  name  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  of  his  allies 
and  brothers-in-arms  assembled  outside  the  walls  of  Paris,  I  hereby 
summon  you,  Louis  of  France,  to  surrender  this  city  unconditionally 
and  to  yield  yourself  in  confidence  to  my  master's  mercy. 

King.    And  if  we  refuse,  Sir  Herald? 

Herald.  The  worst  disasters  of  war,  fire  and  sword  and  famine,  and 
no  hope  for  yourself. 

King.  Great  words.  The  Count  of  Montcorbier,  Constable  of 
France,  is  my  counselor.  His  voice  delivers  my  mind.  Speak,  friend, 
and  give  this  messenger  his  answer. 

Frangois.    As  I  will,  sire? 

King.    Yes,  go  on,  go  on.    "//  Villon  were  the  king  of  France'* 

Frangois.  Herald  of  Burgundy,  in  God's  name  and  the  king's,  I 
bid  you  go  back  to  your  master  and  say  this:  "Kings  are  great  in 
the  eyes  of  their  people,  but  the  people  are  great  in  the  eyes  of  God. 
The  people  of  Paris  are  not  so  poor  of  spirit  that  they  fear  the  croak 
of  the  Burgundian  ravens.  When  we  who  eat  are  hungry,  when  we 
who  drink  are  dry,  when  we  who  glow  are  frozen,  when  there  is  neither 
bite  on  the  board  nor  sup  in  the  pitcher  nor  spark  upon  the  hearth, 
our  answer  to  rebellious  Burgundy  will  be  the  same.  You  are  knock- 
ing at  our  doors,  beware  lest  we  open  them.  We  give  you  back 
defiance  for  defiance,  menace  for  menace,  blow  for  blow.  This  is  our 
answer — this  and  the  drawn  sword." 


220  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

[Enter  Katherine  while  he  is  speaking.] 
Katherine.     My   Lord,    with    my   lips   the   women   of    France   thank 

you  for  your  words  of  flame. 
King.     Mistress,  what  does  this  mean? 
Katherine.     It  means,  sire,  that  a  man  has  come  to  court. — This  scene 

is  arranged  from  Justin  Hiwitly  McCarthy's  novel,  "If  I  Were  King." 

THE  BISHOP  AND  THE  CONVICT 
By  Victor  Hugo 

That  evening,  after  his  walk  in  the  town,  the  Bishop  of  D —  re- 
mained quite  late  in  his  room.  At  eight  o'clock  he  was  still  at  work, 
writing  with  some  inconvenience  on  little  slips  of  paper,  with  a  large 
book  open  on  his  knees,  when  Mme.  Magloire,  as  usual,  came  in  to 
take  the  silver  from  the  panel  by  the  bed.  A  moment  after,  the  bishop, 
knowing  that  the  table  was  laid,  and  that  his  sister  was  perhaps  wait- 
ing, closed  his  book  and  went  into  the  dining-room. 

Just  as  the  bishop  entered  Mme.  Magloire  was  speaking  with  some 
warmth.  It  was  a  discussion  on  the  means  of  fastening  the  front 
door. 

It  seems  that  while  Mme.  Magloire  was  out  making  provisions  for 
supper  she  had  heard  the  news  in  sundry  places.  There  was  talk  that 
an  ill-favored  runaway,  a  suspicious  vagabond,  had  arrived  and  was 
lurking  somewhere  near  the  town,  and  that  it  was  the  part  of  wise 
people  to  secure  their  doors  thoroughly. 

"Brother,  do  you  hear  what  Mme.  Magloire  says?" 

"I  heard  something  of  it  indistinctly,"  said  the  bishop.  Then,  turning 
his  chair  half  round,  putting  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  raising  toward 
the  old  servant  his  cordial  and  good-humored  face,  which  the  firelight 
shone  upon,  he  said:  "Well,  well,  what  is  the  matter!  Are  we  in 
any  great  danger?" 

Then  Mme.  Magloire  began  her  story  again,  unconsciously  exagger- 
ating it  a  little.  It  appeared  that  a  barefooted  gypsy  man,  a  sort  of 
dangerous  beggar,  was  in  the  town.  A  man  with  a  knapsack  and  a 
rope  and  a  terrible-looking  face. 

"Indeed !"  said  the  bishop. 

"We  say  that  this  house  is  not  safe  at  all;  and,  if  monseigneur  will 
permit  me,  I  will  go  out  and  tell  Paulin  Musebois,  the  locksmith,  to 
come  and  put  the  old  bolts  in  the  door  again;  they  are  there,  and  it 
will  take  but  a  minute.     I  say  we  must  have  bolts,  were  it  only  for 


DRAMATIC  221 

to-night;  for  I  say  that  a  door  that  opens  with  a  latch  on  the  outside 
to  the  first  comer,  nothing  could  be  more  horrible;  and  then  mon- 
seigneur  has  the  habit  of  always  saying:  'Come  in'  even  at  midnight. 
But,  my  goodness,  there  is  no  need  to  even  ask  leave — " 

The  door  opened. 

It  opened  quickly,  quite  wide,  as  if  pushed  by  some  one  boldly  and 
with  energy. 

A  man  entered. 

He  came  in,  took  one  step,  and  paused,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
him.  He  had  his  knapsack  on  his  back,  his  stick  in  his  hand,  and  a 
rough,  hard,  tired,  and  fierce  look  in  his  eyes,  as  seen  by  the  firelight. 
He  was  hideous.     It  was  an  apparition  of  ill  omen. 

Mme.  Magloire  had  not  even  the  strength  to  scream.  She  stood, 
trembling,  with  her  mouth  open. 

Mdlle.  Baptistine  turned,  saw  the  man  enter,  and  started  out  half 
alarmed;  then,  slowly  turning  back  again  toward  the  fire,  she  looked 
at  her  brother,  and  her  face  resumed  its  usual  calmness  and  serenity. 

"See  here !  My  name  is  Jean  Valj  ean.  I  am  a  convict ;  I  have  been 
nineteen  years  in  the  galleys.  Four  days  ago  I  was  set  free,  and 
started  for  Pontarlier,  which  is  my  destination;  during  these  four 
days  I  have  walked  from  Toulon.  To-day  I  have  walked  twelve 
leagues.  When  I  reached  this  place  this  evening  I  went  to  an  inn, 
and  they  sent  me  away  on  account  of  my  yellow  passport,  which  I  had 
shown  at  the  mayor's  office,  as  was  necessary.  I  went  to  another  inn ; 
they  said:  'Get  out!'  It  was  the  same  with  one  as  with  another; 
no  one  would  have  me.  I  went  to  the  prison  and  the  turnkey  would 
not  let  me  in.  I  crept  into  a  dog-kennel,  the  dog  bit  me,  and  drove 
me  away  as  if  he  had  been  a  man;  you  would  have  said  that  he  knew 
who  I  was.  I  went  into  the  fields  to  sleep  beneath  the  stars;  there 
were  no  stars.  I  thought  it  would  rain,  and  there  was  no  good  God 
to  stop  the  drops,  so  I  came  back  to  the  town  to  get  the  shelter  of 
some  doorway.  There  in  the  square  I  lay  down  upon  a  stone;  a 
good  woman  showed  me  your  house,  and  said:  'Knock  there!'  I 
have  knocked.  What  is  this  place?  Are  you  an  inn?  I  have  money; 
my  savings,  one  hundred  and  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sous,  which  I 
have  earned  in  the  galleys  by  my  work  for  nineteen  years.  I  will  pay. 
What  do  I  care?  I  have  money.  I  am  very  tired — twelve  leagues  on 
foot — and  I  am  so  hungry.    Can  I  stay?" 

"Mme.  Magloire,"  said  the  bishop,  "put  on  another  plate." 

The  man  took  three  steps  and  came  near  the  lamp  which  stood  on 
the  table.     "Stop,"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  he  had  not  been   understood, 


222  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"not  that,  did  you  understand  me?  I  am  a  galley  slave — a  convict — I 
am  just  from  the  galleys."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  sheet 
of  yellow  paper,  which  he  unfolded.  "There  is  my  passport,  yellow, 
as  you  see.  That  is  enough  to  have  me  kicked  out  wherever  I  go. 
Will  you  read  it?  I  know  how  to  read,  I  do.  I  learned  in  the  galleys. 
There  is  a  school  there  for  those  who  care  for  it.  See,  see,  here 
is  what  they  have  put  in  my  passport:  'Jean  Valjean,  a  liberated  con- 
vict, has  been  nineteen  years  in  the  galleys;  five  years  for  burglary; 
fourteen  years  for  having  attempted  four  times  to  escape.  This  man 
is  very  dangerous.'  There  you  have  itl  Everybody  has  thrust  me 
out;  will  you  receive  me?  Is  this  an  inn?  Can  you  give  me  some- 
thing to  eat  and  a  place  to  sleep?     Have  you  a  stable?" 

"Mme.  Magloire,"  said  the  bishop,  "put  some  sheets  on  the  bed  in 
the  alcove." 

Mme.  Magloire  went  out  to  fulfill  her  orders. 

"Monsieur,  sit  down  and  warm  yourself ;  we  are  going  to  take  supper 
presently,  and  your  bed  will  be  made  ready  while  you  sup." 

"True?  What?  You  will  keep  me?  You  won't  drive  me  away — 
a  convict?  You  call  me  monsieur  and  don't  say,  'Get  out,  dog!'  as 
every  one  else  does.  I  thought  that  you  would  send  me  away,  so  I 
told  first  off  who  I  am.  I  shall  have  a  supper?  A  bed  like  other 
people?  With  mattress  and  sheets — a  bed?  It  is  nineteen  years  that 
I  have  not  slept  on  a  bed.  M.  Innkeeper,  what  is  your  name  ?  I  will 
pay  all  you  say.    You  are  an  innkeeper,  ain't  you?" 

"I  am  a  priest  who  lives  here." 

"A  priest,  oh,  noble  priest  1    Then  you  do  not  ask  any  money?" 

"No,  keep  your  money.     How  much  have  you?" 

"One  hundred  and  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sous." 

"And  how  long  did  it  take  you  to  earn  that?" 

"Nineteen  years." 

Mme.  Magloire  brought  in  a  plate  and  set  it  on  the  table. 

"Mme.  Magloire,  put  this  plate  as  near  the  fire  as  you  can.  The 
night  wind  is  raw  in  the  Alps;  you  must  be  cold,  monsieur." 

Every  time  he  said  the  word  monsieur  with  his  gently  solemn  and 
heartily  hospitable  voice  the  man's  countenance  lighted  up.  Monsieur 
to  a  convict  is  a  glass  of  water  to  a  man  dying  of  thirst  at  sea. 

"The  lamp  gives  a  very  poor  light." 

Mme.  Magloire  understood  him,  and  going  to  his  bed-chamber,  took 
from  the  mantel  the  two  silver  candlesticks,  lighted  the  candles  and 
placed  them  on  the  table. 

"M.  l'Cure,  you  are  good;  you  don't  despise  me.     You  take  me  into 


DRAMATIC  223 

your  house;  you  light  your  candles  for  me,  and  I  haven't  hid  from 
you  where  I  came  from,  and  how  miserable  I  am." 

"You  need  not  tell  me  who  you  are.  This  is  not  my  house;  it  is 
the  house  of  Christ.  It  does  not  ask  any  comer  whether  he  has  a 
name,  but  whether  he  has  an  affliction.  You  are  suffering;  you  are 
hungry  and  thirsty;  be  welcome.  And  do  not  thank  me;  do  not  tell 
me  that  I  take  you  into  my  house.  This  is  the  home  of  no  man  except 
him  who  needs  an  asylum.  I  tell  you,  who  are  a  traveler,  that  you 
are  more  at  home  here  than  I ;  whatever  is  here  is  yours.  What  need 
have  I  to  know  your  name?     Besides,  before  you  told  me,  I  knew  it." 

"Really?     You  knew  my  name?" 

"Yes,  your  name  is  my  brother.    You  have  seen  much  suffering." 

"Oh,  the  red  blouse,  the  ball  and  chain,  the  plank  to  sleep  on,  the 
heat,  the  cold,  the  galley's  screw,  the  lash,  the  double  chain  for  nothing, 
the  dungeon  for  a  word — even  when  sick  in  bed,  the  chain.  The  dogs, 
the  dogs  are  happier !  nineteen  years  1  and  I  am  forty-six,  and  now 
a  yellow  passport.     That  is  all." 

"Yes,  you  have  left  a  place  of  suffering.  But  listen,  there  will  be 
more  joy  in  heaven  over  the  tears  of  a  repentant  sinner  than  over  the 
white  robes  of  a  hundred  good  men.  If  you  are  leaving  that  sorrow- 
ful place  with  hate  and  anger  against  men,  you  are  worthy  of  com- 
passion; if  you  leave  it  with  good  will,  gentleness  and  peace,  you  are 
better  than  any  of  us." 

Meantime  Mme.  Magloire  had  served  up  supper.  The  bishop  said 
the  blessing  and  then  served.  The  man  paid  no  attention  to  any  one. 
He  ate  with  the  voracity  of  a  starving  man. 

After  having  said  goodnight  to  his  sister,  the  bishop  took  one  of 
the  silver  candlesticks  from  the  table,  handed  the  other  to  his  guest, 
and  said  to  him :     "Monsieur,  I  will  show  you  to  your  room." 

The  man  followed  him. 

The  house  was  so  arranged  that  one  could  reach  the  alcove  in  the 
oratory  only  by  passing  through  the  bishop's  sleeping-chamber.  Just 
as  they  were  passing  through  this  room  Mme.  Magloire  was  putting  up 
the  silver  in  the  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  It  was  the  last 
thing  she  did  every  night  before  going  to  bed. 

The  bishop  left  his  guest  wishing  him  a  good  night's  rest. 

As  the  cathedral  clock  struck  two,  Jean  Valjean  awoke.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  for  a  moment  into  the  obscurity  about  him,  then 
he  closed  them  to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  he  could  not  get  to  sleep 
again,  so  he  began  to  think.  He  remembered  noticing  the  six  silver 
plates  and  the  large  ladle  that  Mme.  Magloire  had  put  on  the  table. 


224  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Those  six  silver  plates  took  possession  of  him.  There  they  were 
within  a  few  steps.  At  the  very  moment  that  he  passed  through  the 
middle  room  to  reach  the  one  he  was  now  in,  the  old  servant  was 
placing  them  in  a  little  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  He  had 
marked  that  cupboard  well ;  on  the  right  coming  from  the  dining-room. 
They  were  solid  and  old  silver.  With  the  big  ladle  they  would  bring 
at  least  two  hundred  francs;  double  what  he  had  got  for  nineteen 
years'  labor. 

His  mind  wavered  a  whole  hour  and  a  long  one,  in  fluctuation  and 
in  struggle.  The  cloek  struck  three.  He  opened  his  eyes,  rose  up 
hastily  in  bed,  reached  out  his  arm  and  felt  his  knapsack,  which  he  had 
put  into  the  corner  of  the  alcove,  then  he  thrust  out  his  legs  and  put 
his  feet  on  the  floor  and  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how,  seated  on 
his  bed.  All  at  once  he  stooped  down,  took  off  his  shoes  and  put  them 
softly  upon  the  mat  in  front  of  the  bed,  then  he  resumed  his  thinking 
posture  and  was  still  again.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  hesitated  for  a 
moment  longer  and  listened;  all  was  still  in  the  house;  he  walked 
straight  and  cautiously  toward  the  window  which  he  could  discern. 
The  night  was  very  dark,  there  was  a  full  moon.  On  reaching  the 
window,  Jean  Valjean  examined  it.  It  had  no  bars,  opened  into  the 
garden,  and  was  fastened  with  only  a  little  wedge.  He  took  his  club 
in  his  right  hand,  and,  holding  his  breath,  with  stealthy  steps  he  moved 
toward  the  .door  of  the  next  room,  which  was  the  bishop's,  as  we 
know.  On  reaching  the  door  he  found  it  unlatched.  The  bishop  had 
not  closed  it. 

Jean  Valjean  listened.     Not  a  sound. 

He  pushed  the  door.  A  rusty  hinge  suddenly  sent  out  into  the 
darkness  a  harsh  and  prolonged  creak. 

Jean  Valjean  shivered.  He  took  one  step  and  was  in  the  room. 
At  the  moment  when  he  passed  the  bed,  a  cloud  broke,  as  if  purposely, 
and  a  ray  of  moonlight  crossing  the  high  window,  suddenly  lighted 
up  the  bishop's  pale  face.  He  slept  tranquilly.  His  entire  countenance 
was  lit  up  with  a  vague  expression  of  content,  hope  and  happiness.  It 
was  more  than  a  smile  and  almost  a  radiance. 

Jean  Valjean  was  in  the  shadow  with  the  iron  drill  in  his  hand, 
erect,  motionless,  terrified  at  this  radiant  figure.  He  had  never  seen 
anything  comparable  to  it.  This  confidence  filled  him  with  fear.  He 
did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  the  old  man.  He  appeared  ready  either 
to  cleave  his  skull  or  to  kiss  his  hand. 

In  a  few  moments  he  raised  his  left  hand  slowly  to  his  forehead 
and  took  off  his  hat ;  then  letting  his  hand  fall  with  the  same  slowness, 


DRAMATIC  225 

Jean  Valjean  resumed  his  contemplations,  his  cap  in  his  left  hand,  his 
club  in  his  right,  and  his  hair  bristling  on  his  fierce-looking  head. 
Under  this  frightful  gaze  the  bishop  still  slept  in  profoundest  peace. 
The  crucifix  above  the  mantel-piece  was  dimly  visible  in  the  moon- 
light, apparently  extending  its  arms  toward  both,  with  a  benediction 
for  one  and  a  pardon  for  the  other. 

Suddenly  Jean  Valjean  put  on  his  cap,  then  passed  quickly,  without 
looking  at  the  bishop,  along  the  bed,  straight  to  the  cupboard  which 
he  perceived  near  its  head;  he  raised  the  drill  to  force  the  lock; 
the  key  was  in  it;  he  opened  it;  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  the  basket 
of  silver;  he  took  it,  crossed  the  room  with  hasty  stride,  careless  of 
noise,  reached  the  door,  entered  the  oratory,  took  his  stick,  stepped 
out,  put  the  silver  in  his  knapsack,  threw  away  the  basket,  ran  across 
the  garden,  leaped  over  the  wall  like  a  tiger  and  fled. 

The  next  day  at  sunrise  the  bishop  was  walking  in  the  garden.  Mme. 
Magloire  ran  toward  him  quite  beside  herself. 

"Monseigneur,  the  man  has  gone !  The  silver  is  stolen.  The  abom- 
inable fellow!     He  has  stolen  our  silver  1" 

The  bishop  was  silent  for  a  moment  then,  raising  his  serious  eyes, 
he  said  mildly  to  Mme.  Magloire:     "Now,  first,  did  this  silver  belong 
to  us?     Mme.  Magloire,  I  have  for  a  long  time  withheld  this  silver; 
it  belonged  to  the  poor.    Who  was  this  man  ?     A  poor  man  evidently." 
"Alas !  Alas  1"  returned  Mme.  Magloire.     "It  is  not  on  my  account 
or  mademoiselle's;  it  is  all  the  same  to  us.     But  it  is  on  yours,  mon- 
seigneur.   What  is  monsieur  going  to  eat  from  now?" 
The  bishop  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 
"How  so  1  have  we  no  tin  plates  ?" 

Just  as  the  brother  and  sister  were  rising  from  their  breakfast  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
"Come  in,"  said  the  bishop. 

The  door  opened.  A  strange,  fierce  group  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
Three  men  were  holding  a  fourth  by  the  collar.  The  three  men  were 
gendarmes;  the  fourth,  Jean  Valjean. 

In  ^he  meantime  the  bishop  had  approached  as  quickly  as  his  great 
age  permitted.  "Ah,  there  you  are!"  said  he,  looking  toward  Jean 
Valjean.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you.  But  I  gave  you  the  candlesticks  also, 
which  are  silver  like  the  rest,  and  would  bring  two  hundred  francs. 
Why  did  you  not  take  them  along  with  your  plates?" 

Jean  Valjean  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  bishop  with  an  ex- 
pression no  human  tongue  could  describe. 

"Monseigneur,"   said  the  brigadier,   "then  what  this   man   said   was 


226  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

true  ?  We  met  him.  He  was  going  like  a  man  who  was  running  away 
and  we  arrested  him  in  order  to  see.    He  had  this  silver." 

"And  he  told  you  that  it  had  been  given  him  by  a  good  old  priest 
with  whom  he  had  passed  the  night.  I  see  it  all.  And  you  brought 
him  back  here?    It  is  all  a  mistake." 

"If  that  is  so,"  said  the  brigadier,  "we  can  let  him  go." 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  bishop,  "you  may  retire." 

The  gendarmes  released  Jean  Valjean,  who  shrank  back. 

"My  friend,  before  you  go  away  here  are  the  candlesticks;  take 
them." 

Jean  Valjean  was  trembling  in  every  limb.  He  took  the  two  candle- 
sticks mechanically  and  with  a  wild  appearance. 

"Now  go  in  peace.  By  the  way,  my  friend,  when  you  come  again 
you  need  not  come  through  the  garden.  You  can  always  come  in  and 
go  out  by  the  front  door.  It  is  closed  only  with  a  latch,  day  or  night. 
Forget  not,  never  forget  that  you  have  promised  me  to  use  this  silver 
to  become  an  honest  man. 

"Jean  Valjean,  my  brother,  you  belong  no  longer  to  evil,  but  to  good. 
It  is  your  soul  that  I  am  buying  for  you.  I  withdraw  it  from  dark 
thoughts  and  from  the  spirit  of  perdition  and  I  give  it  to  Godl" — 
Arranged  from  "Les  Miserables."  , 

A  DESERT  TRAGEDY 
By  Frank  Norris 

One  day,  a  fortnight  after  McTeague's  flight  from  San  Francisco, 
Marcus  rode  into  Modoc,  to  find  a  group  of  men  gathered  about  a 
notice  affixed  to  the  outside  of  the  Wells-Fargo  office.  It  was  an  offer 
of  reward  for  the  arrest  and  apprehension  of  a  murderer.  The  crime 
had  been  committed  in  San  Francisco,  but  the  man  wanted  had  been 
traced  as  far  as  the  western  portion  of  Inyo  County,  and  was  believed 
at  that  time  to  be  in  hiding  in  either  the  Pinto  or  Panamint  hills  in 
the  vicinity  of  Keeler.  # 

Marcus  reached  Keeler  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day.  Half 
a  mile  from  the  town  his  pony  fell  and  died  from  exhaustion.  Mar- 
cus did  not  stop  even  to  remove  the  saddle.  He  arrived  in  the  bar- 
room of  the  hotel  in  Keeler  just  after  the  posse  had  been  made  up. 
The  sheriff,  who  had  come  down  from  Independence  that  morning, 
at  first  refused  his  offer  of  assistance.  He  had  enough  men  already 
— too  many,  in   fact.     The  country  traveled  through  would  be  hard, 


DRAMATIC  227 

and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  water  for  so  many  men  and  horses. 

"But  none  of  you  fellers  have  ever  seen  um,"  vociferated  Marcus, 
quivering  with  excitement  and  wrath.  "I  know  um  well.  I  could 
pick  um  out  in  a  million.  I  can  identify  um,  and  you  fellers  can't. 
And  I  knew — I  knew — good  God!  I  knew  that  girl — his  wife — in 
Frisco.  She's  a  cousin  of  mine,  she  is — she  was — I  thought  once  of — . 
This  thing's  a  personal  matter  of  mine — an'  that  money  he  got  away 
with,  that  five  thousand,  belongs  to  me  by  rights.  Oh,  never  mind, 
I'm  going  along.  Do  you  hear?"  he  shouted,  his  fists  raised,  "I'm 
going  along,  I  tell  you.  There  ain't  a  man  of  you  big  enough  to  stop 
me.  Let's  see  you  try  and  stop  me  going.  Let's  see  you  once,  any 
two  of  you."    He  filled  the  barroom  with  his  clamor. 

"Lord  love  you,  come  along,  then,"  said  the  sheriff. 

The  posse  rode  out  of  Keeler  that  same  night.  The  keeper  of  the 
general  merchandise  store,  from  whom  Marcus  had  borrowed  a  second 
pony,  had  informed  them  that  Cribbens  and  his  partner,  whose  de- 
scription tallied  exactly  with  that  given  in  the  notice  of  reward,  had 
outfitted  at  his  place  with  a  view  to  prospecting  in  the  Panamint  hills. 
The  posse  trailed  them  at  once  to  their  first  camp  at  the  head  of  the 
valley.  It  was  an  easy  matter.  It  was  only  necessary  to  inquire  of 
the  cowboys  and  range-riders  of  the  valley  if  they  had  seen  and  noted 
the  passage  of  two  men,  one  of  whom  carried  a  bird-cage. 

Beyond  this  first  camp  the  trail  was  lost,  and  a  week  was  wasted 
in  a  bootless  search  around  the  mine  at  Gold  Gulch,  whither  it  seemed 
probable  the  partners  had  gone.  Then  a  traveling  peddler,  who  in- 
cluded Gold  Gulch  in  his  route,  brought  in  the  news  of  a  wonderful 
strike  of  gold-bearing  quartz  some  ten  miles  to  the  south  on  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  range.  Two  men  from  Keeler  had  made  a  strike, 
the  peddler  had  said,  and  added  the  curious  detail  that  one  of  the  men 
had  a  canary  bird  in  a  cage  with  him. 

The  posse  made  Cribben's  camp  three  days  after  the  unaccountable 
disappearance  of  his  partner.  Their  man  was  gone,  but  the  narrow 
hoof-prints  of  a  mule,  mixed  with  those  of  huge  hob-nailed  boots, 
could  be  plainly  followed  irt  the  sand.  Here  they  picked  up  the  trail 
and  held  Jo  it  steadily  till  the  point  was  reached  where,  instead  of 
tending  southward,  it  swerved  abruptly  to  the  east.  The  men  could 
hardly  believe  their  eyes. 

"It  ain't  reason,"  exclaimed  the  sheriff.  "What  in  thunder  is  he  up 
to?  This  beats  me!  Cutting  out  into  Death  Valley  at  this  time  of 
year !" 

"He's  heading  for  Gold  Mountain  over  in  the  Armagosa,  sure." 


228  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  men  decided  that  this  conjecture  was  true.  It  was  the  only- 
inhabited  locality  in  that  direction.  A  discussion  began  as  to  the 
further  movements  of  the  posse. 

"I  don't  figure  on  going  into  that  alkali  sink  with  no  eight  men  and 
horses,"  declared  the  sheriff.  "One  man  can't  carry  enough  water  to 
take  him  and  his  mount  across,  let  alone  eight.  No,  sir.  Four  couldn't 
do  it.  No,  three  couldn't.  We've  got  to  make  a  circuit  round  the 
valley  and  come  up  on  the  other  side  and  head  him  off  at  Gold 
Mountain.    That's  what  we  got  to  do,  and  ride  like  blazes  to  do  it,  too." 

But  Marcus  protested  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs  against 
abandoning  the  trail  now  that  they  had  found  it.  He  argued  that  they 
were  now  but  a  day  and  a  half  behind  their  man.  There  was  no 
possibility  of  their  missing  the  trail — as  distinct  in  the  white  alkali 
as  in  snow.  They  could  make  a  dash  into  the  valley,  secure  their 
man,  and  return  long  before  their  water  failed  them.  He,  for  one, 
would  not  give  up  the  pursuit,  now  that  they  were  so  close.  In  the 
haste  of  the  departure  from  Keeler  the  sheriff  had  neglected  to  swear 
him  in.    He  was  under  no  orders.    He  would  do  as  he  pleased. 

"Go  on,  then,  you  darn  fool,"  answered  the  sheriff.  "We'll  cut  on 
round  the  valley,  for  all  that.  It's  a  gamble  he'll  be  at  Gold  Mountain 
before  you're  half-way  across.  But  if  you  catch  him,  here" — he  tossed 
Marcus  a  pair  of  handcuffs — "put  'em  on  him  and  bring  him  back  to 
Keeler." 

Two  days  after  he  had  left  the  posse,  and  when  he  was  already  far 
out  in  the  desert,  Marcus's  horse  gave  out.  In  the  fury  of  his  im- 
patience he  had  spurred  mercilessly  forward  on  the  trail,  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  third  day  found  that  his  horse  was  unable  to  move. 
The  joints  of  his  legs  seemed  locked  rigidly.  He  would  go  his  own 
length,  stumbling  and  interfering,  then  collapse  helplessly  upon  the 
ground  with  a  pitiful  groan.     He  was  used  up. 

Marcus  believed  himself  to  be  close  upon  McTeague  now.  The 
ashes  at  his  last  camp  had  still  been  smoldering.  Marcus  took  what 
supplies  of  food  and  water  he  could  carry,  and  hurried  on.  But  Mc- 
Teague was  farther  ahead  than  he  had  guessed,  and  by  evening  of  his 
third  day  upon  the  desert  Marcus,  raging  with  thirst,  had  drunk  his 
last  mouthful  of  water  and  had  flung  away  the  empty  canteen. 

"If  he  ain't  got  water  with  um,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  pushed  on, 
"if  he  ain't  got  water  with  um,  I'll  be  in  a  bad  way.  I  will,  for  a 
fact." 

At  Marcus's  shout  McTeague  looked  up  and  around  him.     For  the 


DRAMATIC  229 

instant  he  saw  no  one.  The  white  glare  of  alkali  was  still  unbroken. 
Then  his  swiftly  rolling  eyes  lighted  upon  a  head  and  shoulder  that 
protruded  above  the  low  crest  of  the  break  directly  in  front  of  him. 
A  man  was  there,  lying  at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  covering  him 
with  a  revolver.  For  a  few  seconds  McTeague  looked  at  the  man 
stupidly,  bewildered,  confused,  as  yet  without  definite  thought.  Then 
he  noticed  that  the  man  was  singularly  like  Marcus  Schouler.  It  was 
Marcus  Schouler.  How  in  the  world  did  Marcus  Schouler  happen  to 
be  in  that  desert?  What  did  he  mean  by  pointing  a  pistol  at  him 
that  way?  He'd  best  look  out  or  the  pistol  would  go  off.  Then  his 
thoughts  readjusted  themselves  with  a  swiftness  born  of  a  vivid  sense 
of  danger.  Here  was  the  enemy  at  last,  the  tracker  he  had  felt  upon 
his  footsteps.  Now  at  length  he  had  "come  on"  and  shown  himself, 
after  all  those  days  of  skulking.  McTeague  was  glad  of  it.  He'd 
show  him  now.  They  two  would  have  it  out  right  then  and  there. 
His  rifle!  He  had  thrown  it  away  long  since.  He  was  helpless. 
Marcus  had  ordered  him  to  put  up  his  hands.  If  he  did  not,  Marcus 
would  kill  him.  He  had  the  drop  on  him.  McTeague  stared,  scowling 
fiercely  at  the  leveled  pistol.     He  did  not  move. 

"Hands  up!"  shouted  Marcus  a  second  time.  "I'll  give  you  three 
to  do  it  in.  One,  two — "  Instinctively  McTeague  put  his  hands  above 
his  head. 

Marcus  rose  and  came  towards  him  over  the  break. 

"Keep  'em  up,"  he  cried.  "If  you  move  'em  once  I'll  kill  you, 
sure." 

He  came  up  to  McTeague  and  searched  him,  going  through  his 
pockets ;  but  McTeague  had  no  revolver ;  not  even  a  hunting  knife. 

"What  did  you  do  with  that  money,  with  that  five  thousand  dollars?" 

"It's  on  the  mule,"  answered  McTeague,   sullenly. 

Marcus  grunted,  and  cast  a  glance  at  the  mule,  who  was  standing 
some  distance  away,  snorting  nervously,  and  from  time  to  time  flatten- 
ing his  long  ears. 

"Is  that  it  there  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  there  in  that  canvas 
sack?"  Marcus  demanded. 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  came  into  Marcus's  eyes,  and  under  his 
breath  he  muttered:     "Got  it  at  last." 

He  was  singularly  puzzled  to  know  what  next  to  do.  He  had  got 
McTeague.  There  he  stood  at  length,  with  his  big  hands  over  his 
head,  scowling  at  him  sullenly.  Marcus  had  caught  his  enemy,  had 
run  down  the  man  for  whom  every  officer  in  the  state  had  been  looking. 


230  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

What  should  he  do  with  him  now?     He  couldn't  keep  him  standing 
there  forever  with  his  hands  over  his  head. 

"Got  any  water?"  he  demanded. 

"There's  a  canteen  of  water  on  the  mule." 

Marcus  moved  toward  the  mule  and  made  as  if  to  reach  the  bridle- 
rein.  The  mule  squealed,  threw  up  his  head,  and  galloped  to  a  little 
distance,  rolling  his  eyes  and  flattening  his  ears. 

Marcus  swore  wrath  fully. 

"He  acted  that  way  once  before,"  explained  McTeague,  his  hands 
still  in  the  air.  "He  ate  some  loco-weed  back  in  the  hills  before  I 
started." 

For  a  moment  Marcus  hesitated.  While  he  was  catching  the  mule 
McTeague  might  get  away.  But  where  to,  in  heaven's  name?  A  rat 
could  not  hide  on  the  surface  of  that  glistening  alkali,  and  besides, 
all  McTeague's  store  of  provisions  and  his  priceless  supply  of  water 
were  on  the  mule.  Marcus  ran  after  the  mule,  revolver  in  hand, 
shouting  and  cursing.  But  the  mule  would  not  be  caught.  He  acted  as 
if  possessed,  squealing,  lashing  out,  and  galloping  in  wide  circles,  his 
head  high  in  the  air. 

"Come  on,"  shouted  Marcus,  furious,  turning  back  to  McTeague. 
"Come  on,  help  me  catch  him.  We  got  to  catch  him.  All  the  water 
we  got  is  on  the  saddle." 

McTeague  came  up. 

"He's  eatun  some  loco-weed,"  he  repeated.  "He  went  kinda  crazy 
before." 

"If  he  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  bolt  and  keep  on  running — " 

Marcus  did  not  finish.  A  sudden  great  fear  seemed  to  widen  around 
and  inclose  the  two  men.  Once  their  water  gone,  the  end  would  not 
be  long. 

"We  can  catch  him  all  right,"  said  the  dentist.  "I  caught  him  once 
before." 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  can  catch  him,"  answered  Marcus,  reassuringly. 

Already  the  sense  of  enmity  between  the  two  had  weakened  in  the 
face  of  a  common  peril.  Marcus  let  down  the  hammer  of  his  re- 
volver and  slid  it  back  into  the  holster. 

The  mule  was  trotting  on  ahead,  snorting  and  throwing  up  great 
clouds  of  alkali  dust.  At  every  step  the  canvas  sack  jingled,  and 
McTeague's  bird-cage,  still  wrapped  in  the  flour  bags,  bumped  against 
the  saddle-pads.  By  and  by  the  mule  stopped,  blowing  out  his  nostrils 
excitedly. 

"He's  clean  crazy,"  fumed  Marcus,  panting  and  swearing. 


DRAMATIC  231 

"We  ought  to  come  up  on  him  quiet,"  observed  McTeague. 
"I'll  try  and  sneak  up,"  said  Marcus;  "two  of  us  would  scare  him 
again.     You  stay  here." 

Marcus  went  forward  a  step  at  a  time.  He  was  almost  within  arm's 
length  of  the  bridle  when  the  mule  shied  from  him  abruptly  and 
galloped  away. 

Marcus  danced  with  rage,  shaking  his  fists,  and  swearing  horribly. 
Some  hundred  yards  away  the  mule  paused  and  began  blowing  and 
snuffing  in  the  alkali  as  though  in  search  of  food.  Then,  for  no 
reason,  he  shied  again,  and  started  off  on  a  jog  trot  toward  the  east. 

"We've  got  to  follow  him,"  exclaimed  Marcus,  as  McTeague  came 
up.     "There's  no  water  within  seventy  miles  of  here." 

Then  began  an  interminable  pursuit.  Mile  after  mile,  under  the 
terrible  heat  of  the  desert  sun,  the  two  men  followed  the  mule,  racked 
with  a  thirst  that  grew  fiercer  every  hour.  A  dozen  times  they  could 
almost  touch  the  canteen  of  water,  and  as  often  the  distraught  animal 
shied  away  and  fled  before  them.    At  length  Marcus  cried: 

"It's  no  use,  we  can't  catch  him,  and  we're  killing  ourselves  with 
thirst.  We  got  to  take  our  chances."  He  drew  his  revolver  from  its 
holster,  cocked  it,  and  crept  forward. 

"Steady  now,"  said  McTeague;  "it  won't  do  to  shoot  through  the 
canteen." 

Within  twenty  yards  Marcus  paused,  made  a  rest  of  his  left  forearm 
and  fired. 

"You  got  him,"  cried  McTeague.  "No,  he's  up  again.  Shoot  him 
again.     He's  going  to  bolt." 

Marcus  ran  on,  firing  as  he  went.  The  mule,  one  foreleg  trailing, 
scrambled  along,  squealing  and  snorting.  Marcus  fired  his  last  shot. 
The  mule  pitched  forward  upon  his  head,  then,  rolling  sideways,  fell 
upon  the  canteen,  bursting  it  open  and  spilling  its  entire  contents  into 
the  sand. 

Marcus  and  McTeague  ran  up,  and  Marcus  snatched  the  battered 
canteen  from  under  the  reeking,  bloody  hide.  There  was  no  water 
left.  Marcus  flung  the  canteen  from  him  and  stood  up,  facing  Mc- 
Teague.   There  was  a  pause. 

"We're  dead  men,"  said  Marcus. 

McTeague  looked  from  him  out  over  the  desert.  Chaotic  desolation 
stretched  from  them  on  either  hand,  flaming  and  glaring  with  the 
afternoon  heat.  There  was  the  brazen  sky  and  the  leagues  upon 
leagues  of  alkali,  leper  white.  There  was  nothing  more.  They  were 
jn  the  heart  of  Death  Valley. 


232  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Not  a  drop  of  water,"  muttered  McTeague ;  "not  a  drop  of  water." 

"We  can  drink  the  mule's  blood,"  said  Marcus.  "It's  been  done 
before.  But— but — "  he  looked  down  at  the  quivering,  gory  body 
" — but  I  ain't  thirsty  enough  for  that  yet." 

"Where's  the  nearest  water?" 

"Well,  it's  about  a  hundred  miles  or  more  back  of  us  in  the  Pana- 
mint  hills,"  returned  Marcus,  doggedly.  "We'd  be  crazy  long  before 
we  reached  it.  I  tell  you  we're  done  for.  We  ain't  ever  going  to  get 
outa  here." 

"Done  for?"  murmured  the  other,  looking  about  stupidly.  "Done 
for,  that's  the  word.    Done  for?    Yes,  I  guess  we're  done  for." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  exclaimed  Marcus,  sharply,  after 
a  while. 

"Well,  let's  be  moving  along — somewhere." 

"Where,  I'd  like  to  know?     What's  the  good  of  moving  on?" 

"Wat's  the  good  of  stopping  here?" 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Lord,  it's  hot,"  said  the  dentist,  finally,  wiping  his  forehead  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.    Marcus  ground  his  teeth. 

"Done  for,"  he  muttered;  "done  for." 

"I  never  was  so  thirsty,"  continued  McTeague.  "I'm  that  dry  I 
can  hear  my  tongue  rubbing  against  the  roof  of  my  mouth." 

"Well,  we  can't  stop  here,"  said  Marcus,  finally;  "we  got  to 
go  somewhere.  We'll  try  and  get  back,  but  it  ain't  no  manner 
of  use.  Anything  we  want  to  take  along  with  us  from  the  mule? 
We  can—" 

Suddenly  he  paused.  In  an  instant  the  eyes  of  the  two  doomed  men 
had  met  as  the  same  thought  simultaneously  rose  in  their  minds.  The 
canvas  sack  with  its  five  thousand  dollars  was  still  tied  to  the  horn 
of  the  saddle. 

Marcus  had  emptied  his  revolver  at  the  mule,  and  though  he  still 
wore  his  cartridge  belt,  he  was  for  the  moment  as  unarmed  as  Mc- 
Teague. 

"I  guess,"  began  McTeague,  coming  forward  a  step,  "I  guess  even 
if  we  are  done  for,  I'll  take — some  of  my  truck  along." 

"Hold  on,"  exclaimed  Marcus,  with  rising  aggressiveness.  "Let's 
talk  about  that.  I  ain't  so  sure  about  who  that — who  that  money  be- 
longs to." 

"Well,  I  am,  you  see,"  growled  the  dentist. 

The  old  enmity  between  the  two  men,  their  ancient  hate,  was  flaming 
up  again. 


DRAMATIC  233 

"Don't  try  an'  load  that  gun  either,"  cried  McTeague,  fixing  Marcus 
with  his  little  eyes. 

"Then  don't  lay  your  finger  on  that  sack,"  shouted  the  other. 
"You're  my  prisoner,  do  you  understand?  You'll  do  as  I  say." 
Marcus  had  drawn  the  handcuffs  from  his  pocket,  and  stood  ready 
with  his  revolver  held  as  a  club.  "You  soldiered  me  out  of  that 
money  once,  and  played  me  for  a  sucker,  an'  it's  my  turn  now.  Don't 
you  lay  your  finger  on  that  sack." 

Marcus  barred  McTeague's  way,  white  with  passion.  McTeague 
did  not  answer.  His  eyes  drew  to  two  fine,  twinkling  points,  and  his 
enormous  hands  knotted  themselves  into  fists,  hard  as  wooden  mallets. 
He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  Marcus,  then  another. 

Suddenly  the  men  grappled,  and  in  another  instant  were  rolling  and 
struggling  upon  the  hot,  white  ground.  McTeague  thrust  Marcus 
backward  until  he  tripped  and  fell  over  the  body  of  the  dead  mule. 
The  little  bird-cage  broke  from  the  saddle  with  the  violence  of  their 
fall,  and  rolled  out  upon  the  ground,  the  flour-bags  slipping  from  it. 
McTeague  tore  the  revolver  from  Marcus's  grip  and  struck  out  with 
it  blindly.  Clouds  of  alkali  dust,  fine  and  pungent,  enveloped  the  two 
fighting  men,  all  but  strangling  them. 

McTeague  did  not  know  how  he  killed  his  enemy,  but  all  at  once 
Marcus  grew  still  beneath  his  blows.  Then  there  was  a  sudden  last 
return  of  energy.  McTeague's  right  wrist  was  caught,  something 
clicked  upon  it,  then  the  struggling  body  fell  limp  and  motionless  with 
a  long  breath. 

As  McTeague  rose  to  his  feet,  he  felt  a  pull  at  his  right  wrist; 
something  held  it  fast.  Looking  down,  he  saw  that  Marcus  in  that 
last  struggle  had  found  strength  to  handcuff  their  right  wrists  to- 
gether. Marcus  was  dead  now ;  McTeague  was  locked  to  the  body. 
All  about  him,  vast,  interminable,  stretched  the  measureless  leagues 
of  Death  Valley. 

McTeague  remained  stupidly  looking  around  him,  now  at  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  now  at  the  ground,  now  at  the  half -dead  canary  chittering 
feebly  in  its  little  gilt  prison. — Arranged  from  "McTeague."  Copyright 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind  permission. 

MICHAEL  STROGOFF,  COURIER  OF  THE  CZAR 

By  Jules  Verne 

The  door  of  the  imperial  cabinet  was  opened  and  General  Kissoff 
was  announced. 


234  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"The  courier?"  inquired  the  Czar  eagerly. 

"He  is  here,  sire,"  replied  General  Kissoff. 

"Let  him  come  in,"  said  the  Czar. 

In  a  few  moments  Michael  Strogoff,  the  courier,  entered.  The 
Czar  fixed  a  penetrating  look  upon  him  without  uttering  a  word. 
Then  in  an  abrupt  tone — 

"Thy  name?" 

"Michael  Strogoff,  sire." 

"Thy  rank?" 

"Captain  in  the  corps  of  Couriers  to  the  Czar." 

"Thou  dost  know  Siberia?" 

"I  ami  a  Siberian." 

"A  native  of — ?" 

"Omsk,  sire." 

"Hast  thou  relations  there?" 

"Yes,  sire,  my  aged  mother." 

The  Czar  suspended  his  questions  for  a  moment;  then  pointed  to 
a  letter  which  he  held  in  his  hand : 

"Here  is  a  letter  which  I  charge  thee,  Michael  Strogoff,  to  deliver 
into  the  hands  of  the  Grand  Duke,  and  to  no  one  but  him." 

"I  will  deliver  it,  sire." 

"The  Grand  Duke  is  at  Irkutsk.  Thou  wilt  have  to  traverse  a  re- 
bellious country,  invaded  by  Tartars,  whose  interest  it  will  be  to 
intercept  this  letter." 

"I  will  traverse  it." 

"Above  all,  beware  of  the  traitor,  Ivan  Ogareff,  who  will  perhaps 
meet  thee  on  the  way." 

"I  will  beware  of  him." 

"Wilt  thou  pass  through  Omsk?" 

"Sire,  that  is  my  route." 

"If  thou  dost  see  thy  mother,  there  will  be  the  risk  of  being  recog- 
nized.   Thou  must  not  see  her!" 

Michael  Strogoff  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"I  will  not  see  her." 

"Swear  to  me  that  nothing  will  make  thee  acknowledge  who  thou 
art,  nor  whither  thou  art  going." 

"I  swear  it." 

"Michael  Strogoff,  take  this  letter.  On  it  depends  the  safety  of  all 
Siberia,  and  perhaps  the  life  of  my  brother,  the  Grand  Duke." 

"This  letter  shall  be  delivered  to  His  Highness,  the  Grand  Duke." 

"Qo,  thou,  for  God,  for  the  Czar,  an4  for  your  native  land," 


DRAMATIC  235 

The  courier  saluted  his  sovereign  and  that  very  night  set  out  to  ful- 
fill his  perilous  mission.  All  went  well  until  he  reached  Omsk.  Com- 
pelled to  stop  here  for  food  and  a  change  of  horses,  he  was  about 
to  leave  the  posting  house  to  continue  his  journey  when  suddenly  a 
cry  made  him  tremble — a  cry  which  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  his 
soul — and  these  two  words  rushed  into  his  ear:     "My  son!" 

His  mother,  the  old  woman,  Marfa,  was  before  him !  Trembling, 
she  smiled  upon  him  and  stretched  forth  her  arms  to  him.  Michael 
Strogoff  stepped  forward;  he  was  about  to  throw  himself — when  the 
thought  of  duty,  the  serious  danger  to  himself,  and  his  mother,  in 
this  unfortunate  meeting,  stopped  him,  and  so  great  was  his  self-com- 
mand that  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved.  There  were  twenty  people 
in  the  public  room,  and  among  them  perhaps  spies,  and  was  it  not 
known  that  the  son  of  Marfa  Strogoff  belonged  to  the  corps  of 
Couriers  to  the  Czar?     Michael  Strogoff  did  not  move. 

"Michaell"  cried  his  mother. 

"Who  are  you,  my  good  woman?" 

"Who  am  I?    Dost  thou  no  longer  know  thy  mother?" 

"You  are  mistaken;   a  resemblance  deceives  you." 

Marfa  went  up  to  him,   and  looking  straight  into  his   eyes,  said: 

"Art  thou  not  the  son  of  Peter  and  Marfa  Strogoff?" 

Michael  would  have  given  his  life  to  have  locked  his  mother  in  his 
arms.  But  if  he  yielded  now  it  was  all  over  with  him,  with  her,  with 
his  mission,  with  his  oath.  Completely  master  of  himself,  he  closed 
his  eyes  that  he  might  not  see  the  inexpressible  anguish  of  his  mother. 

"I  do  not  know,  in  truth,  what  it  is  you  say,  my  good  woman." 

"Michael!" 

"My  name  is  not  Michael.  I  never  was  your  son!  I  am  Nicholas 
Kopanoff,  a  merchant  of  Irkutsk." 

And  suddenly  he  left  the  room,  while  for  the  last  time  the  words 
echoed  in  his  ears, — 

"My  son!    My  son!" 

Michael  Strogoff  by  a  desperate  effort  had  gone.  He  did  not  heed  his 
old  mother,  who  had  fallen  back  almost  inanimate  on  a  bench.  But 
when  the  postmaster  hastened  to  assist  her,  the  aged  woman  raised 
herself.  Suddenly  the  thought  occurred  to  her:  She  denied  by  her 
own  son.  It  was  impossible!  As  for  being  deceived,  it  was  equally 
impossible.  It  was  certainly  her  son  whom  she  had  just  seen;  and  if 
he  had  not  recognized  her  it  was  because  he  had  some  strong  reason 
for  acting  thus.  And  then,  her  mother-feelings  arising  within  her, 
she  had  only  one  thought:    Can  I  unwittingly  have  ruined  him? 


236  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"I  am  mad,"  she  said  to  her  interrogators.  "This  young  man  was 
not  my  son;  he  had  not  his  voice.  Let  us  think  no  more  of  it.  If 
we  do,  I  shall  end  in  finding  him  everywhere." 

This  scene,  however,  was  immediately  reported  to  Ivan  Ogareff,  who 
was  stationed  in  the  town.  He  at  once  arrested  Michael  Strogoff,  and 
then  had  Marfa  brought  before  him.  Marfa,  standing  before  Ivan 
Ogareff,  drew  herself  up,  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast,  and  waited. 

"You  are  Marfa  Strogoff?"  asked  Ogareff. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  retract  what  you  said  a  few  hours  ago?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  do  not  know  that  your  son,  Michael  Strogoff,  Courier  to 
the  Czar,  has  passed  through  Omsk?" 

"I  do  not  know  it." 

"And  the  man  whom  you  thought  you  recognized  as  your  son  was 
not  your  son?" 

"He  was  not  my  son." 

"And  since  then,  you  have  seen  him  among  the  prisoners  ?" 

"No." 

"If  he  were  pointed  out  to  you,  would  you  recognize  him?" 

"No." 

"Listen!  Your  son  is  here,  and  you  shall  immediately  point  him 
out  to  me." 

"No." 

"All  these  men  will  file  before  you,  and  if  you  do  not  show  me 
Michael  Strogoff,  you  shall  receive  as  many  blows  from  the  knout 
as  men  shall  have  passed  before  you." 

On  an  order  from  Ogareff,  the  prisoners  filed  one  by  one  past 
Marfa,  who  was  immovable  as  a  statue,  and  whose  face  expressed  only 
perfect  indifference.  Michael  was  to  all  appearances  unmoved,  but 
the  palms  of  his  hands  bled  under  the  nails  which  were  pressed  into 
the  flesh. 

Marfa,  seized  by  two  soldiers,  was  forced  on  her  knees  on  the 
ground.  Her  dress  torn  off  left  her  back  bare.  A  saber  was  placed 
before  her  breast  at  a  few  inches'  distance.  If  she  bent  beneath  her 
sufferings,  her  breast  would  be  pierced  by  the  sharp  steel.  The  Tartar 
drew  himself  up  and  waited. 

"Begin,"  said  Ogareff. 

The  whip  whistled  through  the  air,  but,  before  it  fell,  a  powerful 
hand  stopped  the  Tartar's  arm.     Ivan  Ogareff  had  succeeded. 


DRAMATIC  237 

"Michael  Strogoff!"  cried  he. 

"Himself!"  said  Michael,  and  raising  the  knout,  he  struck  Ogareff 
a  blow  across  the  face. 

"Blow  for  blowl"  said  he. 

Twenty  soldiers  threw  themselves  on  Michael  and  in  another  instant 
he  would  have  been  slain,  but  Ogareff  stopped  them. 

"This  man  is  reserved  for  the  Emir's  judgment.     Search  him." 

The  letter  bearing  the  imperial  arms  was  found  in  Michael's  bosom ; 
he  had  not  time  to  destroy  it.  It  was  handed  to  Ogareff.  Michael 
was  then  led  before  the  Emir. 

"Your  forehead  to  the  ground !"  exclaimed  Ogareff. 

"No !" 

Two  soldiers  tried  to  make  him  bend,  but  were  themselves  laid  on 
the  ground  by  a  blow  from  Michael's  list. 

"Who  is  this  prisoner?"  asked  the  Emir. 

"A  Russian  spy,"  answered  Ogareff. 

In  asserting  that  Michael  was  a  spy,  he  knew  that  the  sentence 
would  be  terrible.  The  Emir  made  a  sign,  at  which  all  bowed  low 
their  heads.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  Koran,  which  was  brought  to 
him.  He  opened  the  sacred  book,  and  placing  his  finger  on  one  of  its 
pages,  read  in  a  loud  voice  a  verse  ending  in  these  words:  "And  he 
shall  no  more  see  the  things  of  this  earth." 

"Russian  spy,  you  have  come  to  see  what  is  going  on  in  the  Tar- 
tar camp ;  then  look  while  you  may !  You  have  seen  for  the  last 
time.  In  an  instant  your  eyes  will  be  for  ever  shut  to  the  light  of 
day." 

Michael's  fate  was  to  be  not  death,  but  blindness.  He  was  going  to 
be  blinded  in  the  Tartar  fashion,  with  a  hot  saber-blade  passed  before 
his  eyes. 

The  Emir's  orders  executed,  Ivan  Ogareff  approached  Michael,  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  Imperial  letter,  opened  it  and  held  it  up  before 
the  face  of  the  Czar's  courier,  saying  with  supreme  irony : 

"Read,  now,  Michael  Strogoff,  read,  and  go  and  repeat  at  Irkutsk 
what  you  have  read.  The  true  Courier  of  the  Czar  is  henceforth  Ivan 
Ogareff." 

The  Emir  retired  with  his  train.  Ivan  followed  after,  and  sightless 
Michael  was  left  alone  to  his  fate.  One  thought  possessed  him.  He 
must  somehow  arrive  at  Irkutsk  before  the  traitor  and  warn  the  Grand 
Duke  of  the  intended  deception. 

Some  months  later  Michael  Strogoff  had  reached  his  journey's  end! 


238  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

He  was  in  Irkutsk.  Hastening  to  the  governor's  palace  to  see  the 
Grand  Duke,  he  meets  in  a  waiting-room  Ivan  Ogareff,  the  traitor. 
The  latter  must  act  quickly.  Ogareff  arose,  and  thinking  he  had  an 
immeasureable  advantage  over  the  blind  man  threw  himself  upon  him. 
But  with  one  hand  Michael  grasps  the  arm  of  his  enemy  and  hurls 
him  to  the  ground.  Ogareff  gathers  himself  together  like  a  tiger  about 
to  spring,  and  utters  not  a  word.  The  noise  of  his  footsteps,  his  very 
breathing,  he  tries  to  conceal  from  the  blind  man.  At  last,  with  a 
spring,  he  drives  his  sword  full  blast  at  Michael's  breast.  An  imper- 
ceptible movement  of  the  blind  man's  knife  turns  aside  the  blow. 
Michael  is  not  touched,  and  coolly  waits  a  second  attack.  Cold  drops 
stand  on  Ogareff's  brow;  he  draws  back  a  step  and  again  leaps  for- 
ward. But  like  the  first,  this  attempt  fails.  Michael's  knife  has  par- 
ried the  blow  from  the  traitor's  useless  sword.  "Mad  with  rage  and 
terror,  he  gazes  into  the  wide-open  eyes  of  the  blind  man.  Those  eyes 
which  seem  to  pierce  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  and  which  do  not, 
cannot,  see,  exercise  a  sort  of  dreadful  fascination  over  him. 

Suddenly  Ogareff  utters  a  cry:     "He  seesl    He  sees  I" 

"Yes,  I  see.  Thinking  of  my  mother,  the  tears  which  sprang  to  my 
eyes  saved  my  sight.  I  see  the  mark  of  the  knout  which  I  gave  you, 
traitor  and  coward !  I  see  the  place  where  I  am  about  to  strike  you ! 
Defend  your  lifel  It  is  a  duel  I  offer  you!  My  knife  against  your 
sword !" 

Ogareff  now  feels  that  he  is  lost,  but,  mustering  up  all  his  courage, 
he  springs  forward.  The  two  blades  cross,  but  at  a  touch  from 
Michael's  knife  the  sword  flies  in  splinters,  and  the  wretch,  stabbed 
to  the  heart,  falls  lifeless  to  the  ground. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  is  thrown  open,  and  the  Grand  Duke, 
accompanied  by  some  of  his  officers,  enters.  The  Grand  Duke  ad- 
vances. In  the  body  lying  on  the  ground  he  recognizes  the  man  whom 
he  believes  to  be  the  Czar's  Courier.     Then  in  threatening  voice : 

"Who  killed  this  man?" 

"I,"  answered  Michael. 

"Thy  name?  Who  dares  kill  the  servant  of  my  brother,  the  Czar's 
Courier?" 

"That  man,  your  highness,  is  not  a  Courier  of  the  Czar  1  He  is  Ivan 
Ogareff!" 

"Ivan  Ogareff !" 

"Yes,  Ivan  the  traitor." 

"But  who  are  you,  then?" 

"Michael  Strogoff." 


DRAMATIC  239 

THE  TIGER'S  CAVE 

AN  ADVENTURE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  QUITO 

On  leaving  the  Indian  village,  we  continued  to  wind  round  Chim- 
borazo's  wide  base ;  but  its  snow-crowned  head  no  longer  shone  above 
us  in  clear  brilliancy,  for  a  dense  fog  was  gathering  gradually  around 
it.  Our  guides  looked  anxiously  towards  it,  and  announced  their 
apprehensions  of  a  violent  storm.  We  soon  found  that  their  fears 
were  well  founded.  The  fog  rapidly  covered  and  obscured  the  whole 
of  the  mountain;  the  atmosphere  was  suffocating,  and  yet  so  humid 
that  the  steelwork  of  our  watches  was  covered  with  rust,  and  the 
watches  stopped.  The  river  beside  which  we  were  traveling  rushed 
down  with  still  greater  impetuosity;  and  from  the  clefts  of  the  rocks 
which  lay  on  the  left  of  our  path  were  suddenly  precipitated  small 
rivulets  that  bore  the  roots  of  trees  and  innumerable  serpents  along 
with  them.  These  rivulets  often  came  down  so  suddenly  and  vio- 
lently that  we  had  great  difficulty  in  preserving  our  footing.  The 
thunder  at  length  began  to  roll,  and  resounded  through  the  moun- 
tainous passes  with  the  most  terrific  grandeur.  Then  came  the  vivid 
lightning,  flash  following  flash — above,  around,  beneath — everywhere  a 
sea  of  fire.  We  sought  a  momentary  shelter  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks, 
while  one  of  our  guides  hastened  forward  to  seek  a  more  secure 
asylum.  In  a  short  time  he  returned,  and  informed  us  that  he  had 
discovered  a  spacious  cavern,  which  would  afford  us  sufficient  protec- 
tion from  the  elements.  We  proceeded  thither  immediately,  and  with 
great  difficulty,  and  not  a  little  danger,  at  last  got  into  it. 

The  noise  and  raging  of  the  storm  continued  with  so  much  violence 
that  we  could  not  hear  the  sound  of  our  voices.  I  had  placed  myself 
near  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  and  could  observe,  through  the  opening, 
which  was  straight  and  narrow,  the  singular  scene  without.  The  high- 
est cedar-trees  were  struck  down,  or  bent  like  reeds;  monkeys  and 
parrots  lay  strewed  upon  the  ground,  killed  by  the  falling  branches; 
the  water  had  collected  in  the  path  we  had  just  passed,  and  hurried 
along  it  like  a  mountain  stream.  From  everything  I  saw  I  thought 
it  extremely  probable  that  we  should  be  obliged  to  pass  some  days  in 
this  cavern.  When  the  storm,  however,  had  somewhat  abated,  our 
guides  ventured  out  in  order  to  ascertain  if  it  were  possible  to  continue 
our  journey.  The  cave  in  which  we  had  taken  refuge  was  extremely 
dark,  so  that  if  we  moved  a  few  paces  from  the  entrance  we  could 
see  no  more  than  an  inch  before  us ;  and  we  were  debating  as  to  the 


240  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

propriety  of  leaving  it,  even  before  the  Indians  came  back,  when  we 
suddenly  heard  a  singular  rumbling  or  growling  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  cavern,  which  instantly  fixed  all  our  attention.  Wharton  and 
myself  listened  anxiously,  but  our  daring  and  inconsiderate  young 
friend  Lincoln,  together  with  my  huntsman,  crept  about  upon  their 
hands  and  knees,  and  endeavored  to  discover,  by  groping,  from  whence 
the  sound  proceeded.  They  had  not  advanced  far  into  the  cavern 
before  we  heard  them  utter  an  exclamation  of  surprise;  and  they 
returned  to  us,  each  carrying  in  his  arms  an  animal  singularly  marked, 
and  about  the  size  of  a  cat,  seemingly  of  great  strength  and  power, 
and  furnished  with  immense  fangs.  The  eyes  were  of  a  green  color; 
strong  claws  were  upon  their  feet;  and  a  blood-red  tongue  hung  out 
of  their  mouths.  Wharton  had  scarcely  glanced  at  them,  when  he 
exclaimed,  in  consternation,  "Good  God!  we  have  come  into  the  den 
of  a — ."  He  was  interrupted  by  a  fearful  cry  of  dismay  from  our 
guides,  who  came  rushing  precipitately  towards  us,  calling  out,  "A 
tiger  1  a  tiger!"  and  at  the  same  time,  with  extraordinary  rapidity, 
they  climbed  up  a  cedar-tree,  which  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave, 
and  hid  themselves  among  the  branches. 

After  the  first  sensation  of  horror  and  surprise,  which  rendered  me 
motionless  for  a  moment,  had  subsided,  I  grasped  my  firearms.  Whar- 
ton had  already  regained  his  composure  and  self-possession;  and  he 
called  to  us  to  assist  him  instantly  in  blocking  up  the  mouth  of  the 
cave  with  an  immense  stone,  which  fortunately  lay  near  it.  The  sense 
of  approaching  danger  augmented  our  strength,  for  we  now  distinctly 
heard  the  growl  of  the  ferocious  animal,  and  we  were  lost  beyond 
redemption  if  it  reached  the  entrance  before  we  could  get  it  closed. 
Ere  this  was  done,  we  could  distinctly  see  the  tiger  bounding  towards 
the  spot  and  stooping  in  order  to  creep  into  his  den  by  the  narrow 
opening.  At  this  fearful  moment  our  exertions  were  successful,  and 
the  great  stone  kept  the  wild  beast  at  bay.  There  was  a  small  open 
space,  however,  left  between  the  top  of  the  entrance  and  the  stone, 
through  which  we  could  see  the  head  of  the  animal,  illuminated  by  its 
glowing  eyes,  which  rolled,  glaring  with  fury,  upon  us.  Its  frightful 
roaring,  too,  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  the  cavern,  and  was  answered 
by  the  hoarse  growling  of  the  cubs,  which  Lincoln  and  Frank  had  now 
tossed  from  them.  Our  ferocious  enemy  attempted  first  to  remove 
the  stone  with  his  powerful  claws,  and  then  to  push  it  with  his  head 
from  its  place;  and  these  efforts,  proving  abortive,  served  only  to 
increase  his  wrath.  He  uttered  a  tremendous,  heart-piercing  howl,  and 
his  flaming  eyes  darted  light  into  the  darkness  of  our  retreat. 


DRAMATIC  241 

"Now  is  the  time  to  fire  at  him,"  said  Wharton,  with  his  usual  calm- 
ness ;  "aim  at  his  eyes ;  the  ball  will  go  through  his  brain,  and  we 
shall  then  have  a  chance  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Frank  seized  his  double-barreled  gun,  and  Lincoln  his  pistols ;  the 
former  placed  the  muzzle  within  a  few  inches  of  the  tiger,  and  Lincoln 
did  the  same.  At  Wharton's  command,  they  both  drew  the  triggers 
at  the  same  moment,  but  no  shot  followed.  The  tiger,  who  seemed 
aware  that  the  flash  indicated  an  attack  upon  him,  sprang  growling 
from  the  entrance,  but,  feeling  himself  unhurt,  immediately  turned 
back  again,  and  stationed  himself  in  his  former  place.  The  powder  in 
both  pieces  was  wet.  Frank  and  Lincoln,  therefore,  proceeded  to  draw 
the  useless  charges  while  Wharton  and  myself  hastened  to  seek  our 
powder-flask.  It  was  so  extremely  dark  that  we  were  obliged  to  grope 
about  the  cave ;  and,  at  last,  coming  in  contact  with  the  cubs,  we  heard 
a  rustling  noise,  as  if  they  were  playing  with  some  metal  substance, 
which  we  soon  discovered  was  the  cannister  we  were  looking  for. 
Most  unfortunately,  however,  the  animals  had  pushed  off  the  lid  with 
their  claws,  and  the  powder  had  been  strewed  over  the  damp  earth 
and  rendered  entirely  useless.  This  fearful  discovery  excited  the  great- 
est consternation. 

"All  is  now  over,"  said  Wharton.  "We  have  only  now  to  choose 
whether  we  shall  die  of  hunger,  together  with  these  animals  who  are 
shut  up  along  with  us,  or  open  the  entrance  to  the  blood-thirsty  mon- 
ster without,  and  so  make  a  quicker  end  of  the  matter." 

So  saying,  he  placed  himself  close  beside  the  stone,  which,  for  the 
moment,  defended  us,  and  looked  undauntedly  upon  the  lightning  eyes 
of  the  tiger. 

Lincoln  raved  and  swore;  and  Frank  took  a  piece  of  strong  cord 
from  his  pocket  and  hastened  to  the  farther  end  of  the  cave — I  knew 
not  with  what  design.  We  soon,  however,  heard  a  low,  stifled  groan- 
ing; and  the  tiger,  who  had  heard  it  also,  became  more  restless  and 
disturbed  than  ever.  He  went  backwards  and  forwards  before  the 
entrance  of  the  cave,  in  the  most  wild,  impetuous  manner,  then  stood 
still,  and  stretching  out  his  neck  in  the  direction  of  the  forest,  broke 
forth  into  a  deafening  howl.  Our  two  Indian  guides  took  advantage 
of  this  opportunity  to  discharge  several  arrows  from  the  tree.  The 
animal  was  struck  more  than  once,  but  the  light  weapons  bounded 
back  harmless  from  his  thick  skin.  At  length,  however,  one  of  them 
struck  him  near  the  eye,  and  the  arrow  remained  sticking  in  the  wound. 
He  now  broke  anew  into  the  wildest  fury,  and  sprang  at  the  tree,  and 
tore  it  with  his  claws,  as  if  he  would  have  dragged  it  to  the  ground. 


242  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But,  having  at  length  succeeded  in  getting  rid  of  the  arrow,  became 
more  calm,  and  laid  himself  down  as  before  in  front  of  the  cave. 

Frank  now  returned  from  the  lower  end  of  the  den,  and  a  glance 
showed  us  what  he  had  been  doing.  In  each  hand,  and  dangling  from 
the  end  of  a  string,  were  the  two  cubs.  He  had  strangled  them,  and 
before  we  were  aware  what  he  intended,  he  threw  them  through  the 
opening  to  the  tiger.  No  sooner  did  the  animal  perceive  them,  than 
he  gazed  earnestly  upon  them,  and  began  to  examine  them  closely, 
turning  them  cautiously  from  side  to  side.  As  soon  as  he  became 
aware  that  they  were  dead,  he  uttered  so  piercing  a  howl  of  sorrow 
that  we  were  obliged  to  put  our  hands  to  our  ears.  When  I  up- 
braided my  huntsman  for  the  cruel  action  he  had  so  rashly  commit- 
ted, I  perceived  by  his  blunt  and  abrupt  answers  that  he  also  had  lost 
all  hope  of  rescue  from  our  impending  fate,  and,  that,  under  these 
circumstances,  the  ties  between  master  and  servant  were  dissolved. 
For  my  own  part,  without  knowing  why,  I  could  not  help  believing 
that  some  unexpected  assistance  would  yet  rescue  us  from  so  horrible 
a  fate.  Alas !  I  little  anticipated  the  sacrifice  that  my  rescue  was 
to  cost. 

The  thunder  had  now  ceased,  and  the  storm  had  sunk  to  a  gentle 
gale;  the  songs  of  the  birds  were  again  heard  in  the  neighboring  for- 
est, and  the  sunbeams  sparkled  in  the  drops  that  hung  from  the  leaves. 
We  saw  through  the  aperture  that  all  nature  was  reviving  after  the 
wild  war  of  elements  which  had  so  recently  taken  place;  but  the  con- 
trast only  made  our  situation  the  more  terrible.  We  were  in  a  grave 
from  which  there  was  no  deliverance ;  and  a  monster,  worse  than  the 
fabled  Cerberus,  kept  watch  over  us.  The  tiger  had  laid  himself  down 
beside  his  whelps.  He  was  a  beautiful  animal,  of  great  size  and 
strength,  and  his  limbs  being  stretched  out  at  their  full  length,  dis- 
played his  immense  power  of  muscle.  A  double  row  of  great  teeth 
stood  far  enough  apart  to  show  his  large  red  tongue,  from  which  the 
white  foam  fell  in  large  drops.  All  at  once,  another  roar  was  heard 
at  a  distance,  and  the  tiger  immediately  rose  and  answered  it  with 
a  mournful  howl.  At  the  same  instant,  our  Indians  uttered  a  shriek, 
which  announced  that  some  new  danger  threatened  us.  A  few  mo- 
ments confirmed  our  worst  fears,  for  another  tiger,  not  quite  so  large 
as  the  former,  came  rapidly  towards  the  spot  where  we  were. 

"This  enemy  will  prove  more  cruel  than  the  other,"  said  Wharton; 
"for  this  is  the  female,  and  she  knows  no  pity  for  those  who  deprive 
her  of  her  young." 

The  howls  which  the  tigress  gave  when  she  had  examined  the  bodies 


DRAMATIC  243 

of  her  cubs,  surpassed  everything  of  the  horrible  that  we  had  yet 
heard;  and  the  tiger  mingled  his  mournful  cries  with  hers.  Suddenly 
her  roaring  was  lowered  to  a  hoarse  growling,  and  we  saw  her  anx- 
iously stretch  out  her  head,  extend  her  wide  and  smoking  nostrils,  and 
look  as  if  she  were  determined  to  discover  immediately  the  murderers 
of  her  young.  Her  eyes  quickly  fell  upon  us,  and  she  made  a  spring 
forward  with  the  intention  of  penetrating  to  our  place  of  refuge. 
Perhaps  she  might  have  been  enabled  by  her  immense  strength  to  push 
away  the  stone,  had  we  not,  with  all  our  united  power,  held  it  against 
her.  When  she  found  that  all  her  efforts  were  fruitless  she  rejoined 
the  tiger,  who  lay  stretched  beside  his  cubs,  and  he  arose  and  added 
his  howls  to  her  hollow  roarings.  They  stood  together  for  a  few 
moments,  as  if  in  consultation,  and  then  suddenly  went  off  at  a  rapid 
pace,  and  disappeared  from  our  sight.  Their  howling  died  away  in  the 
distance,  and  then  entirely  ceased.  We  now  began  to  entertain  better 
hopes  of  our  condition;  but  Wharton  shook  his  head. 

"Do  not  flatter  yourselves,"  said  he,  "with  the  belief  that  these  ani- 
mals will  let  us  escape  out  of  their  sight  till  they  have  had  their 
revenge.    The  hours  we  have  to  live  are  numbered." 

Nevertheless,  there  still  appeared  a  chance  for  our  rescue,  for,  to  our 
surprise,  we  saw  both  our  Indians  standing  before  the  entrance,  and 
heard  them  call  to  us  to  seize  the  only  possibility  of  our  yet  saving 
ourselves  by  instant  flight,  for  that  the  tigers  had  only  gone  round 
the  height  to  seek  another  inlet  to  the  cave,  with  which  they  were  no 
doubt  acquainted.  In  the  greatest  haste  the  stone  was  pushed  aside, 
and  we  stepped  forth  from  what  we  had  considered  a  living  grave. 
Wharton  was  the  last  who  left  it ;  he  was  unwilling  to  lose  his  double- 
barreled  gun,  and  stopped  to  take  it  up ;  the  rest  of  us  only  thought 
of  making  our  escape.  We  now  heard  once  more  the  roaring  of  the 
tigers,  though  at  a  distance ;  and,  following  the  example  of  our  guides, 
we  precipitately  struck  into  a  sidepath.  From  the  number  of  roots 
and  branches  of  trees  with  which  the  storm  had  strewed  our  way,  and 
the  slipperiness  of  the  road,  our  flight  was  slow  and  difficult.  Whar- 
ton, though  an  active  seaman,  had  a  heavy  step,  and  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  pace  with  us,  and  we  were  often  obliged  to  slacken 
our  own  on  his  account. 

We  had  proceeded  thus  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  we 
found  that  our  way  led  along  the  edge  of  a  rocky  cliff,  with  innumer- 
able fissures.  We  had  just  entered  upon  it,  when  suddenly  the  Indians, 
who  were  before  us,  uttered  one  of  their  piercing  shrieks,  and  we 
immediately   became    aware    that    the    tigers    were   in    pursuit    of    us. 


244  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Urged  by  despair,  we  rushed  towards  the  breaks,  or  gulfs,  in  our  way, 
over  which  was  thrown  a  bridge  of  reeds,  that  sprang  up  and  down 
at  every  step,  and  could  be  trodden  with  safety  by  the  light  foot  of 
the  Indians  alone.  Deep  in  the  hollow  below  rushed  an  impetuous 
stream,  and  a  thousand  pointed  and  jagged  rocks  threatened  destruc- 
tion on  every  side.  Lincoln,  my  huntsman,  and  myself,  passed  over  the 
chasm  in  safety;  but  Wharton  was  still  in  the  middle  of  the  waving 
bridge,  and  endeavoring  to  steady  himself,  when  both  the  tigers  were 
seen  to  issue  from  the  adjoining  forest;  and,  the  moment  they  descried 
us  they  bounded  towards  us  with  dreadful  roarings.  Meanwhile, 
Wharton  had  nearly  gained  the  safe  side  of  the  gulf,  and  we  were  all 
clambering  the  rocky  cliff,  except  Lincoln,  who  remained  at  the  reedy 
bridge  to  assist  his  friend  to  step  upon  firm  ground.  Wharton, 
though  the  ferocious  animals  were  close  upon  him,  never  lost  his 
courage  or  presence  of  mind. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gained  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  knelt  down,  and, 
with  the  edge  of  his  sword,  divided  the  fastenings  by  which  the  bridge 
was  attached  to  the  rock.  He  expected  an  effectual  barrier  would  thus 
be  put  to  the  farther  progress  of  our  pursuers ;  but  he  was  mistaken ; 
for  he  had  scarcely  accomplished  his  task,  when  the  tigress,  without 
a  moment's  pause,  rushed  towards  the  chasm,  and  attempted  to  bound 
over.  It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see  the  mighty  animal,  suspended  for 
a  moment  in  the  air  above  the  abyss ;  but  the  scene  passed  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  Her  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  distance ;  she  fell  into 
the  gulf,  and  before  she  reached  the  bottom,  was  torn  into  a  thousand 
pieces  by  the  jagged  points  of  the  rocks.  Her  fate  did  not  in  the  least 
dismay  her  companion;  he  followed  her  with  an  immense  spring,  and 
reached  the  opposite  side,  but  only  with  his  fore-claws,  and  thus  he 
clung  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  endeavoring  to  gain  a  footing. 
The  Indians  again  uttered  a  wild  shriek,  as  if  all  hope  had  been  lost. 
But  Wharton,  who  was  nearest  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  advanced 
courageously  towards  the  tiger,  and  struck  his  sword  into  the  ani- 
mal's breast.  Enraged  beyond  all  measure,  the  wild  beast  collected 
all  his  strength,  and  with  a  violent  effort,  fixing  one  of  his  hind-legs 
upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  seized  Wharton  by  the  thigh.  The 
heroic  man  still  preserved  his  fortitude;  he  grasped  the  trunk  of  a 
tree  with  his  left  hand,  to  steady  and  support  himself,  while  with  his 
right  he  wrenched  and  violently  turned  the  sword  that  was  still  in 
the  breast  of  the  tiger. 

All  this  was  the  work  of  an  instant.  The  Indians,  Frank,  and  my- 
self hastened  to  his  assistance;  but  Lincoln,  who  was  already  at  his 


DRAMATIC  245 

side,  had  seized  Wharton's  gun,  which  lay  near  by,  upon  the  ground, 
and  struck  so  powerful  a  blow  with  the  butt-end  upon  the  head  of  the 
tiger,  that  the  animal,  stunned  and  overpowered,  let  go  his  hold  and 
fell  back  into  the  abyss.  All  would  have  been  well,  had  it  ended  thus ; 
but  the  unfortunate  Lincoln  had  not  calculated  upon  the  force  of  his 
blow;  he  staggered  forward,  reeled  upon  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
extended  his  hand  to  seize  upon  anything  to  save  himself — but  in 
vain.  His  foot  slipped;  for  an  instant  he  hovered  over  the  gulf,  and 
then  was  plunged  into  it  to  rise  no  more ! — Edinburgh  Literary  Journal. 

WHALE  HUNTING 
By  J.  Ross  Browne 

"There  she  blows !"  was  sung  out  from  the  mast-head. 

"Where  away?"  demanded  the  captain. 

"Three  points  off  the  lee  bow,  sir." 

"Raise  up  your  wheel.     Steady !" 

"Steady,  sir." 

"Mast-head,  ahoyl     Do  you  see  that  whale  now?" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir  1  A  school  of  sperm  whales!  There  she  blows! 
There  she  breaches !" 

"Sing  out !     Sing  out  every  time  1" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!  There  she  blows!  There — there — thar'  she  blows — 
blowes — blo-o-o-s !" 

"How  far  off!" 

"Two  miles  and  a  half  !" 

"Thunder  and  lightning!  so  near!  Call  all  hands!  Clew  up  the 
f  ore-t'gallant-sail — there  !  belay  !  Hard  down  your  wheel !  Haul  aback 
the  main  yard !  Get  your  tubs  in  your  boats !  Bear  a  hand !  Clear 
your  falls!     Stand  by  all  to  lower!     All  ready?" 

"All  ready,  sir!" 

"Lower  away !" 

Down  went  the  boats  with  a  splash.  Each  boat's  crew  sprang  over 
the  rail,  and  in  an  instant  the  larboard,  starboard  and  waist  boats 
were  manned.  There  was  great  rivalry  in  getting  the  start.  The 
waist-boat  got  off  in  pretty  good  time;  and  away  went  all  three,  dash- 
ing the  water  high  over  their  bows.  Nothing  could  be  more  exciting 
than  the  chase. 

The  larboard  boat,  commanded  by  the  mate,  and  the  waist-boat,  by 
the  second  mate,  were  head  and  head. 


246  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way!"  shouted  our  headsman;  "we  gain 
on  them;  give  way!  A  long,  steady  stroke!  That's  the  way  to 
tell  it!" 

"Aye,  aye!"  cried  Tabor,  our  boat-steerer.  "What  d'ye  say,  boys? 
Shall  we  lick  'em?" 

"Pull!  pull  like  vengeance!"  echoed  the  crew;  and  we  danced  over 
the  waves,  scarcely  seeming  to  touch  them. 

The  chase  was  now  truly  soul-stirring.  Sometimes  the  larboard, 
then  the  starboard,  then  the  waist-boat  took  the  lead.  It  was  a  severe 
trial  of  skill  and  muscle.  After  we  had  run  two  miles  at  this  rate, 
the  whales  turned  flukes,  going  dead  to  windward. 

"Now  for  it,  my  lads!"  cried  our  headsman.  "We'll  have  them  the 
next  rising.  Now  pile  it  on!  a  long,  steady  pull!  That's  it!  Don't 
give  out!     Half  an  hour  more,  and  they're  our  whales!" 

The  other  boats  had  veered  off  at  either  side  of  us,  and  continued 
the  chase  with  renewed  ardor.  In  about  half  an  hour  we  lay  on  our 
oars  to  look  around  for  the  whales. 

"There  she  blows!  right  ahead!"  shouted  Tabor,  fairly  dancing  with 
delight. 

"There  she  blows!    There  she  blows!" 

"Oh,  Lord,  boys,  spring!"  cried  our  headsman. 

"Spring  it  is !  What  d'ye  say,  now,  chummies  ?  Shall  we  take  those 
whales  ?" 

To  this  general  appeal  every  man  replied  by  putting  his  weight  on 
his  oar,  and  exerting  his  utmost  strength.  The  boat  flew  through  the 
water  with  incredible  swiftness,  scarcely  rising  to  the  waves. 

A  large  bull  whale  lay  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  of  us,  lazily 
rolling  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  The  larboard  and  starboard  boats 
were  far  to  leeward  of  us,  tugging  hard  to  get  a  chance  at  the  other 
whales,  which  were  now  blowing  in  every  direction. 

"Give  way !  give  way,  my  hearties !"  cried  our  headsman,  putting  his 
weight  against  the  aft  oar.  "Do  you  love  gin?  A  bottle  of  gin  to  the 
best  man  1     Oh,  pile  it  on  while  you  have  breath !  pile  it  on !" 

"On  with  the  beef,  chummies!  Smash  every  oar!  double  'em  up, 
or  break  'em !" 

"Every  devil's  imp  of  you,  pull!  No  talking;  lay  back  to  it;  now 
or  never!" 

On  dashed  the  boat,  cleaving  its  way  through  the  rough  sea  as  if 
the  briny  element  were  blue  smoke.  The  whale,  however,  turned  flukes 
before  we  could  reach  him.  When  he  appeared  again  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  milled  while  down,  by 


DRAMATIC  247 

which  maneuver  he  gained  on  us  nearly  a  mile.  The  chase  was  now 
almost  hopeless,  as  he  was  making  to  windward  rapidly.  A  heavy, 
black  cloud  was  on  the  horizon,  portending  an  approaching  squall,  and 
the  barque  was  fast  fading  from  sight.  Still  we  were  not  to  be  baf- 
fled by  discouraging  circumstances  of  this  kind,  and  we  braced  our 
sinews  for  a  grand  and  final  effort. 

"Never  give  up,  my  lads !"  said  the  headsman,  in  a  cheering  voice. 
"Mark  my  words,  we'll  have  that  whale  yet.  Only  think  he's  ours, 
and  there's  no  mistake  about  it,  he  will  be  ours.  Now  for  a  hard, 
steady  pull!     Give  way!" 

"Give  way,  sir !     Give  way,  all  I" 

"There  she  blows!  Oh,  pull  my  lively  lads  I  Only  a  mile  off! 
There  she  blows  I" 

The  wind  by  this  time  had  increased  almost  to  a  gale,  and  the  heavy 
black  clouds  were  scattering  over  us  far  and  wide.  Part  of  the  squall 
had  passed  off  to  leeward  and  entirely  concealed  the  barque.  Our  sit- 
uation was  rather  unpleasant:  in  a  rough  sea,  the  other  boats  out  of 
sight,  and  each  moment  the  wind  increasing. 

We  continued  to  strain  every  muscle  till  we  were  hard  upon  the 
whale.     Tabor  sprang  to  the  bow,  and  stood  by  with  the  harpoon. 

"Softly,  softly,  my  lads,"  said  the  headsman. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!" 

"Hush-h-h  1  softly.    Now's  your  time,  Tabor  1" 

Tabor  let  fly  the  harpoon,  and  buried  the  iron. 

"Give  him  another !" 

"Aye,  aye  !     Stern  all !" 

"Stern  all !"  thundered  the  headsman. 

"Stern  all !" 

And,  as  we  rapidly  backed  from  the  whale,  he  flung  his  tremendous 
flukes  high  in  the  air,  covering  us  with  a  cloud  of  spray.  He  then 
sounded,  making  the  line  whiz  as  it  passed  through  the  chocks.  When 
he  rose  to  the  surface  again,  we  hauled  up,  and  the  second  mate  stood 
ready  in  the  bow  to  dispatch  him  with  lances. 

"Spouting  blood!"  said  Tabor.  "He's  a  dead  whale!  He  won't  need 
much  lancing." 

It  was  true  enough;  for,  before  the  officer  could  get  within  dart  of 
him,  he  commenced  his  dying  struggles.  The  sea  was  crimsoned  with 
his  blood.  By  the  time  we  had  reached  him,  he  was  belly  up.  We 
lay  upon  our  oars  a  moment  to  witness  his  last  throes,  and,  when  he 
had  turned  his  head  toward  the  sun,  a  loud,  simultaneous  cheer  burst 
from  every  lip. 


248  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

A  low,  rumbling  sound,  like  the  roar  of  a  distant  waterfall,  now 
reached  our  ears.     Each  moment  it  grew  louder. 

The  whole  expansive  arch  of  the  heavens  became  dark  with  clouds 
tossing,  flying,  swelling,  and  whirling  over  and  over,  like  the  surges 
of  an  angry  sea.  A  white  cloud,  gleaming  against  the  black  mass 
behind  it,  came  sweeping  toward  us,  stretching  forth  its  long,  white 
arms,  as  if  to  grasp  us  in  its  fatal  embrace.  Louder  and  still  louder 
it  growled ;  yet  the  air  was  still  and  heavy  around  us.  Now  the  white 
cloud  spread,  whirled  over,  and  lost  its  hoary  head;  now  it  wore  the 
mane  and  forefeet  of  a  lion;  now  the  heads  of  a  dragon,  with  their 
tremendous  jaws  extended.  Writhing,  hissing,  roaring,  it  swept  to- 
ward us.  The  demon  of  wrath  could  not  have  assumed  a  more  fright- 
ful form.  The  whole  face  of  the  ocean  was  hidden  in  utter  darkness, 
save  within  a  circle  of  a  few  hundred  yards.  Our  little  boat  floated 
on  a  sea  almost  unruffled  by  a  breath  of  wind.  The  heavy  swell  rolled 
lazily  past  us;  yet  a  death-like  calmness  reigned  in  the  air.  Beyond 
the  circle  all  was  strife;  within,  all  peace.  We  gazed  anxiously  in 
each  other's  faces;  but  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Even  the  veteran 
harpooner  looked  upon  the  clouds  with  a  face  of  unusual  solemnity, 
as  we  lay  upon  our  oars,  awed  to  silence  by  the  sublimity  of  the 
scene.  The  ominous  stillness  of  everything  within  the  circle  became 
painful.  For  many  long  minutes  the  surface  of  the  water  remained 
nearly  smooth.  We  dreaded,  but  longed  for  a  change.  This  state  of 
suspense  was  growing  intolerable.  I  could  hear  the  deep,  long-drawn 
respirations  of  those  around  me ;  I  saw  the  quick,  anxious  glances  they 
turned  to  windward;  and  I  almost  fancied  I  could  read  every  thought 
that  passed  within  their  breasts. 

Suddenly  a  white  streak  of  foam  appeared  within  a  hundred  yards. 
Scarcely  had  we  unshipped  our  oars,  when  the  squall  burst  upon  us 
with  stunning  violence.  The  weather  side  of  the  boat  was  raised  high 
out  of  the  water,  and  the  rushing  foam  dashed  over  the  gunwale  in 
torrents.  We  soon  trimmed  her,  however,  and,  by  hard  bailing,  got 
her  clear  of  water.  It  is  utterly  impossible  to  conceive  the  violence 
of  the  wind.  Small  as  the  surface  exposed  to  the  squall  was,  we 
flew  through  the  foaming  seas,  dragging  the  dead  body  of  the  whale 
after  us  with  incredible  velocity.  Thus  situated,  entirely  at  the  mercy 
of  the  wind  and  sea,  we  continued  every  moment  to  increase  our 
distance  from  the  barque.  When  the  squall  abated,  we  came  to  under 
the  lee  of  the  whale,  and  looked  to  leeward  for  the  barque.  Not  a 
speck  could  be  seen  on  the  horizon  1  Night  was  rapidly  approaching, 
and  we  were  alone  upon  the  broad,  angry  ocean  1 


DRAMATIC  251 

"Ship  your  oars,"  said  the  headsman;  "we'll  not  part  company  with- 
old   blubber   yet.     If   we    can't   make   the    barque,    we   can    make    land 
somewhere." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Tabor,  with  a  sly  leer,  "and  live  on  roast-beef  and 
turkey  while  we're  making  it." 

With  heavy  hearts  and  many  misgivings  we  shipped  our  oars,  heart- 
ily wishing  the  whale  in  the  devil's  try-pots;  for  we  thought  it  rather 
hard  that  our  lives  should  be  risked  for  a  few  barrels  of  oil.  For 
two  hours  we  pulled  a  long,  lazy,  dogged  stroke,  without  a  sign  of 
relief.  At  last  Tabor  stood  up  on  the  bow  to  look  out,  and  we  lay 
on  our  oars. 

"Well,  Tabor,  what  d'ye  see?"  was  the  general  inquiry. 

"Why,"  said  Tabor,  coolly  rolling  the  quid  from  his  weather  to  his 
lee  cheek,  "I  see  a  cussed  old  barque  that  looks  like  Granny  How- 
land's  wash-tub,  with  a  few  broomsticks  rigged  up  in  the  middle  of  it." 

"Pull,  you  devils  1"  cried  our  headsman ;  "there's  duff  in  the  cook's 
coppers." 

"Yes  1     I  think  I  smell  it,"  said  Tabor. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  arrived  alongside  of  the  barque  with 
our  prize;  but  what  was  our  surprise  to  find  that  the  starboard  and 
larboard  boats  had  killed  five  whales  between  them  1  They  were  all 
of  a  small  size,  and  did  not  average  more  than  fifteen  barrels  each. 

That  night  not  a  breath  of  air  ruffled  the  clear,  broad  ocean  as  it 
swelled  beneath  and  around  us,  forming  a  multitude  of  mirrors  that 
reflected  all  the  beauties  of  the  splendid  canopy  above.  The  moon 
arose  with  unusual  brilliancy.  It  was  a  night  for  the  winged  spirits 
of  the  air.  I  enjoyed  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  walking  the  decks 
beneath  the  soft  moonbeams,  thinking  of  past  times.  Silence  reigned 
over  the  deep.  The  calm,  broad  ocean  presented  a  beautiful  simile 
of  repose,  and  the  light,  shadowy  clouds  floated  motionless  in  the  air, 
as  if  in  awe  of  the  mighty  wilderness  of  waters  beneath  them.  A 
clear,  silvery  light  beamed  over  the  glassy  swell ;  and  far  away  the 
moon's  rays,  casting  their  soft  and  delicate  glow  over  the  whole 
scene,  gradually  vanished  in  a  dreamy  haze  upon  the  horizon.  I 
gazed  with  pensive  feelings  upon  this  scene ;  so  calm,  so  heavenly,  so 
unrivaled  in  its  loveliness ;  and  I  thought,  with  a  sigh,  of  the  coming 
day:  the  fiery,  tropical  sun;  the  heat  and  smoke  of  the  try-works;  and 
all  the  realities  of  a  whaleman's  life.  I  have  heard  of  the  solitude  of 
the  desert;  but  what  can  compare  with  that  of  the  ocean  at  such  a 
time  as  this? 

Never  had  the  sea  looked  more  beautiful  than  it  did  that  night. 


250  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  was  a  source  of  pleasure  to  feel  that,  notwithstanding  the 
wretched  life  I  led,  there  were  still  left  a  few  of  the  better  feelings 
of  my  nature.  A  passage  in  the  "Vision  of  Don  Roderic"  occurred  to 
me  as  singularly  expressive  of  the  checkered  fortunes  of  a  seafarer. 
Well  might  I  hope  the  light  cloud  which  occasionally  obscured  the 
moon's  brightness  might  prove  a  happy  omen  of  my  future  fate : 

"Melting,  as  a  wreath  of  snow  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  in  richer  beauty  than  her  own ; 
Then,  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene." 

— From    "Etchings    of    a    Whaling    Cruise,"    by    kind    permission    of 
Harper  &  Brothers,  Publishers,  New  York. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SHADOW 
By  R.  W.  Child 

The  late  afternoon  sunlight  slanted  down  into  the  busy  street 
through  the  trees  of  the  Public  Garden.  It  had  been  the  sort  of  day 
which  whispers  of  other  scenes,  old  faces,  gentle  memories  and 
painted  possibilities.  Now  along  the  street  came  the  ebb-tide  of  the 
day's  work  swept  out  from  the  business  part  of  the  city  and  jostling 
homeward. 

Among  the  home-goers  was  a  man  distinguished  a  little  from  the 
rest  by  a  refined  and  patient  expression.  His  shoulders  sloped  as  if 
they  had  borne  much ;  his  eyes  were  open  in  a  stare  as  if  astounded 
at  the  repetition  of  life's  misfortunes;  and  his  clothes,'  from  his  derby 
hat,  shiny  from  his  wife's  endless  brushings,  to  his  shoes,  flattened  by 
the  monotony  of  his  daily  life,  told  of  the  practice  of  much  respect- 
able economy.  Trouble  had  felt  of  his  throat,  one  would  say,  but 
never  had  succeeded  in  throttling  him.  There  was  a  quiet,  reserved 
strength  in  the  furrows  of  his  forehead  and  in  the  solidity  of  his  chin, 
and  the  wrinkles  at  the  corner  of  his  blue  eyes  declared  that  there 
was  a  fund  of  persistent  hope  in  Carter  Clews. 

Looking  up  suddenly  he  saw  four  men  coming  down  the  steps  of  a 
hotel  toward  an  open  carriage  which  had  drawn  up  to  the  curb.  Three 
were  inclined  to  the  stoutness  of  middle  age,  and  all  were  laughing 
prosperously,  and  chatting  vociferously  of  Commencement  dinners  and 
baseball  games  and  class  reunions;  it  was  evident  that  they  were  four 
successful  men  on  a  holiday  and  straining  to  be  young  again. 


DRAMATIC  251 

Carter  Oews  smiled  with  boyish  pleasure,  for  one  of  them  was 
"Newt"  Riggs,  who  used  to  row  on  the  crew  and  was  now  a  corpora- 
tion attorney  in  Chicago ;  and  there  was  Billy.  Drowson,  who  used  to 
flunk  examinations  as  easily  as  if  he  meant  to  do  it;  and  the  third 
was  Joe  Crane,  who  was  making  his  two  hundred  thousand  a  year  in 
metal  refining  in  Colorado;  and  the  little  man  was  Lapham,  the  sur- 
geon, who  had  been  marshal  of  the  class. 

The  last  had  just  seated  himself  comfortably  in  the  carriage,  when 
Clews  succeeded  in  pushing  his  way  into  the  gap  they  had  left  in  the 
crowd.  Both  Joseph  Crane  and  Lapham,  seeing  him  take  a  step  to- 
ward them,  opened  their  eyes  in  innocent  surprise ;  neither  of  them 
recognized  him.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  of  embarrassed  hesitation, 
and  in  that  moment  he  felt  with  the  sharp  old  pang  that  he  belonged 
among  them  no  more.     They  were  successful  men. 

Carter  Clews  stepped  back  into  the  gray  shadow  of  the  portico.  The 
carriage  started  away  with  a  laugh  and  the  scrape  of  a  wheel  on  the 
curb,  and  Clews  started  on  his  way  once  more.  His  daily  trudge  to 
and  from  his  office  was  the  result  of  a  calculation  that  enough  car 
fare  each  year  was  saved  to  buy  an  extra  gown  for  his  daugh- 
ter. Life  had  toyed  with  him,  showing  her  splendors  and  snatching 
them  from  his  fingers;  had  taught  him  culture  and  then  laughed  at 
him. 

The  rattle  of  his  key  brought  his  wife  to  the  door,  and  the  usual 
smiles  and  kisses  of  welcome  reminded  him  of  the  old  duty  of  keeping 
his  feelings  to  himself. 

"Was  there  any  mail  to-day?" 

"There  was  a  postal-card  came  to-day  for  you,  dad.  It  had  been 
to  all  of  the  four  places  we  have  lived  since  we  came  back  from  Iowa, 
and  so  it  was  late  in  getting  here.  It  was  the  announcement  of  the 
twenty-fifth  anniversary  dinner  of  your  class;  you'll  go,  won't  you?" 

"Where's  the  postal?" 

"Do  go,  dad,  we  don't  like  to  have  you  forgotten.  It's  only  six. 
The  dinner's 'at  eight.     You'll  have  plenty  of  time,  father." 

Clews  took  the  card,  holding  it  under  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the 
center-table.     His  fingers  trembled  a  little  as  he  read  it 

"The  last  dinner  I  went  to  was  in  our  Senior  year,  just  before  I 
graduated  and  went  West;  I  was  toastmaster  at  that  dinner.  It  was 
a  spring  night  like  this.  I  remember  a  little  crowd  of  us  sat  under  a 
tree  in  the  college  yard  and  talked  until  daylight.  We  promised  each 
other,  half  in  fun,  that  the  one  who  got  to  be  forty-five  years  old  and 
wasn't  successful  should  jump  into  the  river.     And  then  we  went  up 


252  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

to  my  room  for  a  cold  bath,  and  I  built  a  fire  and  heated  the  poker 
and  burned  my  name  into  the  mantel-piece." 

He  tossed  the  card  aside.  His  wife  could  see  upon  his  face  the 
unmistakable  sign  that  the  accumulation  of  years  of  disappointment 
was  no  longer  to  be  contained  in  silence. 

"I've  been  a  miserable  fizzle !  Unknown  and  forgotten  because  I 
deserve  it!" 

Edith  looked  straight  at  him.     "That  is  not  true,"  she  said  softly. 

"Perhaps  it's  a  bad  dream  I  It's  been  my  fault.  No  wonder  I'm 
forgotten !  Everybody  flocks  around  a  victor,  but  who  cares  where  the 
man  is  who  failed  to  do  big  things?  Once  he  marched  in  the  front 
line  promising  a  great  deal,  and  now  he's  got  to  watch  the  procession 
from  the  sidewalk.  It  would  be  better,  if  a  man  can't  make  himself 
felt  and  has  got  to  walk  around  unknown— to  keep  his  promise  and — " 

"Don't,  father." 

He  looked  up  into  his  daughter's  face,  and  seeing  the  trembling  of 
her  upper  lip,  drew  a  long  breath  and  squared  his  shoulders. 

"Well,  perhaps  we  all  have  our  compensations." 

"You  are  going  to  the  class  dinner,  aren't  you?" 

"No,  I  think  I  won't  go  this  time.     Perhaps  next  year — " 

"Oh,  yes,  for  me  1     I'll  get  your  evening  clothes.     They're  put  away." 

When  he  appeared  in  them  a  little  later,  he  looked  doubtfully  at 
himself  in  the  mirror,  then  suddenly  smiled. 

"I've  had  them  ever  since  we  were  married.  Their  style  looks 
rather  quaint,  doesn't  it?  But  I've  had  some  very  happy  minutes  in- 
side the  old  coat.     Do  you  remember  this  tie,  Alice?" 

"Why,  for  mercy's  sake  1     That  was  the  first  thing  I  ever  made  you !" 

"I  haven't  forgotten,"  he  answered. 

As  he  went  slowly  out  into  the  hallway  and  down  the  noisy  wooden 
stairs,  his  wife  and  daughter  leaned  over  the  banisters  looking  at  him 
anxiously. 

At  last  he  turned  the  corner  into  the  avenue.  As  he  looked,  he  saw 
a  little  group  of  laughing  men  going  up  the  steps ;  then  he  squared  his 
shoulders,  and  walked  briskly  across  the  street  and  up  the  steps  into 
the  lobby. 

The  clerk  leaned  over  the  desk  toward  him.  "Seventy-six?"  Gews 
nodded:     "Yes,  my  class — Seventy-six." 

"Just  down  at  the  end  of  that  corridor." 

There  were  others  standing  with  him  at  the  checkroom  who  nodded 
to  him. 

"Did  you  go  to  the  game?"  asked  one. 


DRAMATIC  253 

"No.    How  did  it  come  out?" 

"Great  guns !  don't  you  know  how  it  came  out  ?  Why,  we  beat  'em ! 
My  boy  plays  first  base.     I  go  to  all  the  games." 

"I  wish  I  could.  I  wish  I  had  gone  to-day,  but  my  work  is  rather 
confining.  I  have  a  daughter,  and,  of  course,  if  I  had  a  son,  he'd  be 
out  there  at  the  University  too." 

"There  are  several  prominent  members  of  the  class  here  to-night. 
Drowson  is  here,  and  Crane  is  toastmaster.    We're  late,  I  think." 

With  his  new  acquaintance  Clews  followed  a  knot  of  men  who 
opened  the  door,  exposing  two  large  tables  filled  with  diners.  The 
noise  within  burst  out  and  drew  the  attention  of  several  guests  of  the 
hotel,  who  peered  down  the  corridor  with  mild  curiosity. 

When  the  man  who  was  with  Clews  hesitated  for  a  moment,  a  dozen 
voices  rose  up  to  greet  him,  and  several  men  stood  up  to  shout,  "Oh, 
Billy,  here's  a  seat !"  or  "Here  you  are,  Lawton !" 

Clews  was  lonely.  Of  the  men  who  sat  near  him  he  remembered 
only  two  as  acquaintances  of  undergraduate  days,  and  the  old  asso- 
ciations recalled  by  their  faces  were  so  hazy  that  he  was  convinced 
that  he  had  never  known  either  of  them  well.  They  certainly  did  not 
recognize  him.  He  determined  grimly  never  to  suffer  another  expe- 
rience like  this. 

"The  world  likes  success  and  sunlight,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll 
fight  it  out  alone  after  this,  and  in  my  own  little  corner." 

A  waiter  finally  thrust  a  demi-tasse  of  coffee  deftly  over  Clew's 
elbow.  Crane  had  introduced  Drowson  with  an  accompaniment  of 
cheers  and  hand-clapping,  and  Drowson  had  made  a  speech  which  had 
impressed  every  one,  and  Collingwood  had  been  cajoled  into  singing 
an  old  song.  Chairs  were  gradually  moved  back  a  little  from  the 
table,  the  room  became  foggy  with  the  smoke  that  curled  from  the 
cigars,  and  a  contented  fullness  and  laughter  tugged  at  nearly  a  hun- 
dred waistcoats. 

Crane,  the  toastmaster,  was  rapping  for  silence. 

"Before  we  break  up,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  drink  one  more 
toast  with  me.  We  have  toasted  ourselves  and  each  other,  but  this 
toast  is  to  a  man  who  is  not  here." 

The  interest  and  curiosity  of  every  one  was  aroused.  Even  Clews 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  to  listen ;  it  was  plainly  going  to  be  a  eulogy 
of  some  classman  who  had  died. 

"Twenty-five  years  ago,  after  our  last  college  dinner,  there  were  six 
men  in  our  class  sitting  together  under  a  tree  in  the  yard  and  talking 
about  what  we  would  do.    We   said   we   would   all  be   successful  at 


254  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

forty-five.  If  not,  we  were  going  to  jump  into  the  river.  I  was  one 
of  those  men — Billy  Drowson  was  another ;  Wright  was  there — he  died 
the  next  year.  Then  there  was  Lapham  and  Riggs.  But  there  was 
another.  He  was  a  prominent  figure  in  our  class — the  smartest  one 
of  the  six — very  honorable  and  good-hearted.  I  will  not  name  him. 
He  is  not  here.  We  all  thought  he  would  have  a  brilliant  career. 
He  came  out  of  college  and  was  married,  and  his  father  died  and  left 
him  a  mother  and  two  sisters  and  an  inheritance  of  debts.  That  cut 
him  off  from  the  professional  schools,  and  he  went  West,  and  I  have 
found  out  that  he  went  into  a  business  where  there  was  no  chance  in 
the  world  of  advancement.  But  it  had  to  be  done  because  that  of- 
fered a  way  of  bearing  the  burdens  and  obligations  that  were  on  him. 
It  was  just  like  him.  Then  he  had  to  take  care  of  a  wife  and  three 
others  besides. 

"His  health  became  very  bad — he  used  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day 
sometimes,  and  when  he  was  forty  years  old  he  found  himself  very 
much  out  of  order.  Then  he  came  back  East.  Part  of  his  burdens 
had  been  removed,  but  it  was  too  late  to  start  life  as  he  might  have 
started  it  once.  He  had  burned  out  in  the  service  like  a  faithful, 
honest,  well-made  candle.  His  light  had  been  dim,  but  it  had  also 
been  steady.  I  suppose  he  is  alive,  although  I  don't  know.  But  all 
of  us  who  knew  him  best  are  sure  that  wherever  he  is,  he  is  still 
putting  up  a  good  fight,  and  though  he  hasn't  got  the  cheers  and  the 
lime-light,  he's  pulling  mighty  well.  I  know  it!" 
The  room  was  very  still  while  Crane  paused. 

"We've  tried  to  locate  him,  but  we  lost  the  scent  after  we  found  he 
had  come  back  from  Iowa.  We  had  planned  to  go  back  to-night, 
Drowson  and  Lapham  and  Riggs  and  myself  and  this  other  man,  and 
sit  under  the  tree  in  the  yard  where  twenty-five  years  ago  we'd  prom- 
ised to  reach  success,  before  we  came  back  to  attend  this  dinner.  I 
feel  sure  that  this  missing  man — this  lost  member  of  the  class,  I 
might  say,  for  I  can't  find  any  one  who  knows  where  he  is — ought  to 
be  there.    We  think  he  comes  as  near  success  as  any  one  of  us. 

"We  learned  years  ago  at  the  University  that  faithful  duty  really 
counted;  the  kind  of  success  we  are  looking  for  isn't  always  gilt- 
edged;  the  band  isn't  always  playing  for  it  to  march  by!  When  I 
looked  up  this  man  I  found  a  good,  clean,  honest  story — a  story  of 
devotion  and  loyalty  and  the  kind  of  courage  that  holds  out  when 
nobody  is  looking  on  or  waving  hats!  I  think  we  all  ought  to  be 
glad  he  is  a  'Seventy-six'  man,  and  that  we  are  not  so  narrow  or 
ignorant  as  to  count  him  a  lost  cause  and  a  failure.     I  want  you  to 


DRAMATIC  255 

drink  a  toast  to  him  with  me — gentlemen,  to  the  man  who  does  his  job 
in  a  shadow!" 

The  whole  class  came  to  its  feet  together!  Clews  realized  that 
toast  was  to  him.  Had  his  head  been  cool,  he  would  have  arisen  with 
the  rest  unmarked  and  unknown — it  was  the  old  custom  of  remaining 
seated  when  so  honored  that  betrayed  him.  It  left  him  a  second  be- 
hind the  rest,  and  the  speaker's  big  blue  eyes  were  upon  him  at  once. 
Crane  lowered  his  glass  and  exclaimed,  "Good  God !" 

Clews  stumbled  back  into  his  chair.  "Seventy-six"  raised  its  voice 
in  a  great,  generous  roar.  Clews  looked  up  with  wet  cheeks  and 
smiled  like  a  pleased  boy.    This  was  his  class,  cheering — and  for  him ! 

Later  in  the  night  Clews  returned  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  Gov- 
ernor William  Drowson  was  with  him. 

"Alice,"  said  Carter  Clews,  "this  is  Billy.  I  roomed  with  him  when 
I  was  a  freshman.     He's  going  to  spend  the  night  with  me." 

A  WINDSTORM  IN  THE  FORESTS 
By  John  Muir 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  exhilarating  storms  I  ever  enjoyed  in 
the  Sierra  occurred  in  December,  1874,  when  I  happened  to  be  ex- 
ploring one  of  the  tributary  valleys  of  the  Yuba  River.  The  sky  and 
the  ground  and  the  trees  had  been  thoroughly  rain-washed  and  were 
dry  again.  The  day  was  intensely  pure,  one  of  those  incomparable 
bits  of  California  winter,  warm  and  balmy  and  full  of  white  sparkling 
sunshine,  redolent  of  all  the  purest  influences  of  the  spring,  and  at  the 
same  time  enlivened  with  one  of  the  most  bracing  wind-storms  con- 
ceivable. Instead  of  camping  out,  as  I  usually  do,  I  then  chanced  to 
be  stopping  at  the  house  of  a  friend.  But  when  the  storm  began  to 
sound,  I  lost  no  time  in  pushing  out  into  the  woods  to  enjoy  it.  For 
on  such  occasions  Nature  has  always  something  rare  to  show  us,  and 
the  danger  to  life  and  limb  is  hardly  greater  than  one  would  expe- 
rience crouching  deprecatingly  beneath  a  roof. 

It  was  still  early  morning  when  I  found  myself  fairly  adrift.  Deli- 
cious sunshine  came  pouring  over  the  hills,  lighting  the  tops  of  the 
pines,  and  setting  free  a  stream  of  summery  fragrance  that  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  wild  tones  of  the  storm.  The  air  was  mottled  with 
pine-tassels  and  bright  green  plumes  that  went  flashing  past  in  the  sun- 
light like  birds  pursued.  But  there  was  not  the  slightest  dustiness, 
nothing  less  pure  than  leaves,  and  ripe  pollen,  and  flecks  of  withered 


256  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

bracken  and  moss.  I  heard  trees  falling  for  hours  at  the  rate  of  one 
every  two  or  three  minutes;  some  uprooted,  partly  on  account  of  the 
loose,  water-soaked  condition  of  the  ground;  others  broken  straight 
across,  where  some  weakness  caused  by  fire  had  determined  the  spot. 
The  gestures  of  the  various  trees  made  a  delightful  study.  Young 
Sugar  Pines,  light  and  feathery  as  squirrel-tails,  were  bowing  almost 
to  the  ground;  while  the  grand  old  patriarchs,  whose  massive  boles 
had  been  tried  in  a  hundred  storms,  waved  solemnly  above  them,  their 
long,  arching  branches  streaming  fluently  in  the  gale,  and  every  needle 
thrilling  and  ringing  and  shedding  off  keen  lances  of  light  like  a  dia- 
mond. The  Douglas  Spruces,  with  long  sprays  drawn  out  in  level 
tresses  and  needles  massed  in  a  gray,  shimmering  glow,  presented  a 
most  striking  appearance  as  they  stood  in  bold  relief  along  the  hill- 
tops. The  Madronos  in  the  dells,  with  their  red  bark  and  large,  glossy 
leaves  tilted  every  way,  reflected  the  sunshine  in  throbbing  spangles 
like  those  one  so  often  sees  on  the  rippled  surface  of  a  glacier  lake. 
But  the  Silver  Pines  were  now  the  most  impressively  beautiful  of  all. 
Colossal  spires  200  feet  in  "height  waved  like  supple  goldenrods  chant- 
ing and  bowing  low  as  if  in  worship,  while  the  whole  mass  of  their 
long,  tremulous  foliage  was  kindled  into  one  continuous  blaze  of  white 
sun-fire.  The  force  of  the  gale  was  such  that  the  most  steadfast  mon- 
arch of  them  all  rocked  down  to  its  roots  with  a  motion  plainly  per- 
ceptible when  one  leaned  against  it.  Nature  was  holding  high  fes- 
tival, and  every  fiber  of  the  most  rigid  giants  thrilled  with  glad  ex- 
citement. 

I  drifted  on  through  the  midst  of  this  passionate  music  and  motion, 
across  many  a  glen,  from  ridge  to  ridge;  often  halting  in  the  lee  of  a 
rock  for  shelter,  or  to  gaze  and  listen.  Even  when  the  grand  anthem 
had  swelled  to  its  highest  pitch  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  varying 
tones  of  individual  trees, — Spruce,  and  Fir,  and  Pine,  and  leafless  Oak, 
— and  even  the  infinitely  gentle  rustle  of  the  withered  grasses  at  my 
feet.  Each  was  expressing  itself  in  its  own  way, — singing  its  own 
song,  and  making  its  own  peculiar  gestures, — manifesting  a  richness 
of  variety  to  be  found  in  no  other  forest  I  have  yet  seen.  .  .  . 

Toward  midday,  after  a  long,  tingling  scramble  through  copses  of 
hazel  and  ceanothus,  I  gained  the  summit  of  the  highest  ridge  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  then  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  climb  one  of  the  trees  to  obtain  a  wider  outlook  and  get  my 
ear  close  to  the  Eolian  music  of  its  topmost  needles.  But  under  the 
circumstances  the  choice  of  a  tree  was  a  serious  matter.  One  whose 
instep  was  not  very  strong,  seemed  in  danger  of  being  blown  down, 


DRAMATIC  257 

or  of  being  struck  by  others  in  case  they  should  fall;  another 
was  branchless  to  a  considerable  height  above  the  ground,  and  at  the 
same  time  too  large  to  be  grasped  with  arms  and  legs  in  climbing; 
while  others  were  not  favorably  situated  for  clear  views.  After  cau- 
tiously casting  about,  I  made  choice  of  the  tallest  of  a  group  of 
Douglas  Spruces  that  were  growing  close,  together  like  a  tuft  of  grass ; 
no  one  of  which  seemed  likely  to  fall  unless  all  the  rest  fell  with  it. 
Though  comparatively  young,  they  were  about  100  feet  high,  and  their 
lithe,  brushy  tops  were  rocking  and  swirling  in  wild  ecstasy.  Being 
accustomed  to  climb  trees  in  botanical  studies,  I  experienced  no  dif- 
ficulty in  reaching  the  top  of  this  one,  and  never  before  did  I  enjoy  so 
noble  an  exhilaration  of  motion.  The  slender  tops  fairly  flapped  and 
swished  in  the  passionate  torrent,  bending  and  swirling  backward  and 
forward,  round  and  round,  tracing  indescribable  combinations  of  ver- 
tical and  horizontal  curves,  while  I  clung  with  muscles  firmly  braced, 
like  a  bobolink  on  a  reed. 

In  its  widest  sweeps  my  tree-top  described  an  arc  of  twenty  to  thirty 
degrees,  but  I  felt  sure  of  its  elastic  temper,  having  seen  others  of  the 
same  species  still  more  severely  tried — bent  almost  to  the  ground  indeed, 
in  heavy  snows — without  breaking  a  fiber.  I  was  therefore  safe,  and 
free  to  take  the  wind  into  my  pulses  and  enjoy  the  excited  forest  from 
my  superb  outlook.  The  view  from  here  must  be  extremely  beautiful 
in  any  weather.  Now  my  eye*  roved  over  the  piny  hills  and  dales  as 
over  fields  of  waving  grain,  and  felt  the  light  running  in  ripples  and 
broad,  swelling  undulations  across  the  valleys  from  ridge  to  ridge,  as 
the  shining  foliage  was  stirred  by  corresponding  waves  of  air.  Often- 
times these  waves  of  reflected  light  would  break  up  suddenly  into  a 
kind  of  beaten  foam,  and  again,  after  chasing  one  another  in  regular 
order,  they  would  seem  to  bend  forward  in  concentric  curves,  and 
disappear  on  some  hillside,  like  sea-waves  on  a  shelving  shore.  The 
quantity  of  light  reflected  from  the  bent  needles  was  so  great  as  to 
make  whole  groves  appear  as  if  covered  with  snow,  while  the  black 
shadows  beneath  the  trees  greatly  enhanced  the  effect  of  the  silvery 
splendor.  .  .  .  The  sounds  of  the  storm  corresponded  gloriously  with 
this  wild  exuberance  of  light  and  motion.  The  profound  bass  of  the 
naked  branches  and  poles  booming  like  waterfalls;  the  quick,  tense 
vibrations  of  the  pine-needles,  now  rising  to  a  shrill,  whistling  hiss, 
now  falling  to  a  silky  murmur;  the  rustling  of  laurel  groves  in  the 
dells,  and  the  keen,  metallic  click  of  leaf  on  leaf — all  this  was  heard 
in  easy  analysis  when  the  attention  was  calmly  bent. 

I  kept  my  lofty  perch  for  hours,  frequently  closing  my  eyes  to  enjoy 


258  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

the  music  by  itself,  or  to  feast  quietly  on  the  delicious  fragrance  that 
was  streaming  past.  The  fragrance  of  the  woods  was  less  marked 
than  that  produced  during  warm  rain,  when  so  many  balsamic  buds 
and  leaves  are  steeped  like  tea ;  but,  from  the  chafing  of  resiny  branches 
against  each  other,  and  the  incessant  attrition  of  myriads  of  needles, 
the  gale  was  spiced  to  a  very  tonic  degree.  And  besides  the  fragrance 
from  these  local  sources  there  were  traces  of  scents  brought  from 
afar.  For  this  wind  came  first  from  the  sea,  rubbing  against  its  fresh, 
briny  waves,  then  distilled  through  the  redwoods,  threading  rich  ferny 
gulches,  and  spreading  itself  in  broad,  undulating  currents  over  many 
a  flower-enameled  ridge  of  the  Coast  Mountains,  then  across  the 
golden  plains,  up  the  purple  foothills,  and  into  these  piny  woods  with 
the  varied  incense  gathered  by  the  way. 

When  the  storm  began  to  abate,  I  dismounted  and  sauntered  down 
through  the  calming  woods.  The  storm-tones  died  away,  and,  turning 
toward  the  east,  I  beheld  the  countless  hosts  of  the  forests  hushed 
and  tranquil,  towering  above  one  another  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills 
like  a  devout  audience.  The  setting  sun  filled  them  with  amber  light, 
and  seemed  to  say,  while  they  listened,  "My  peace  I  give  unto  you." 

As  I  gazed  on  the  impressive  scene,  all  the  so-called  ruin  of  the 
storm  was  forgotten,  and  never  before  did  these  noble  woods  appear 
so  fresh,  so  joyous,  so  immortal. — From  "The  Mountains  of  Cali- 
fornia." Copyright  by  The  Century  Company,  New  York,  and  used  by 
their  kind  permission. 

AN  UNEXPECTED  ADVENTURE 

By  John  Muir 

A  wild  scene,  but  not  a  safe  one,  is  made  by  the  moon  as  it  appears 
through  the  edge  of  the  Yosemite  Fall  when  one  is  behind  it.  Once, 
after  enjoying  the  night-song  of  the  waters  and  watching  the  forma- 
tion of  the  colored  bow  as  the  moon  came  round  the  domes  and  sent 
her  beams  into  the  wild  uproar,  I  ventured  out  on  the  narrow  bench 
that  extends  back  of  the  fall  from  Fern  Ledge  and  began  to  admire 
the  dim-veiled  grandeur  of  the  view.  I  could  see  the  fine,  gauzy 
threads  of  the  fall's  filmy  border  by  having  the  light  in  front;  and 
wishing  to  look  at  the  moon  through  the  meshes  of  some  of  the  denser 
portions  of  the  fall,  I  ventured  to  creep  further  behind  it  while  it  was 
gently  wind-swayed,  without  taking  sufficient  thought  about  the  con- 
sequences of  its  swaying  back  to  its  natural  position  after  the  wind- 


DRAMATIC  259 

pressure  should  be  removed.  The  effect  was  enchanting:  fine,  savage 
music  sounding  above,  beneath,  around  me ;  while  the  moon,  apparently 
in  the  very  midst  of  the  rushing  waters,  seemed  to  be  struggling  to 
keep  her  place,  on  account  of  the  ever-varying  form  and  density  of 
the  water-masses  through  which  she  was  seen,  now  darkly  veiled  or 
eclipsed  by  a  rush  of  thick-headed  comets,  now  flashing  out  through 
openings  between  their  tails.  I  was  in  fairyland  between  the  dark 
wall  and  the  wild  throng  of  illumined  waters,  but  suffered  sudden  dis- 
enchantment; for,  like  the  witch-scene  in  Alloway  Kirk,  "in  an  in- 
stant all  was  dark/'  Down  came  a  dash  of  spent  comets,  thin  and 
harmless-looking  in  the  distance,  but  they  felt  desperately  solid  and 
stony  when  they  struck  my  shoulders,  like  a  mixture  of  choking  spray 
and  gravel  and  big  hailstones.  Instinctively  dropping  on  my  knees,  I 
gripped  an  angle  of  the  rock,  curled  up  like  a  young  fern  frond  with 
my  face  pressed  against  my  breast,  and  in  this  attitude  submitted  as 
best  I  could  to  my  thundering  bath.  The  heavier  masses  seemed  to 
strike  like  cobblestones,  and  there  was  a  confused  noise  of  many 
waters  about  my  ears — hissing,  gurgling,  clashing  sounds  that  were 
not  heard  as  music.  The  situation  was  quickly  realized.  How  fast 
one's  thoughts  burn  in  such  times  of  stress  I  I  was  weighing  chances 
of  escape.  Would  the  column  be  swayed  a  few  inches  away  from  the 
wall,  or  would  it  come  yet  closer?  The  fall  was  in  flood  and  not  so 
lightly*  would  its  ponderous  mass  be  swayed.  My  fate  seemed  to  de- 
pend on  a  breath  of  the  "idle  wind."  It  was  moved  gently  forward, 
the  pounding  ceased,  and  I  was  once  more  visited  by  glimpses  of  the 
moon.  But  fearing  I  might  be  caught  at  a  disadvantage  in  making 
too  hasty  a  retreat,  I  moved  only  a  few  feet  along  the  bench  to  where 
a  block  of  ice  lay.  I  wedged  myself  between  the  ice  and  the  wall, 
and  lay  face  downwards,  until  the  steadiness  of  the  light  gave  en- 
couragement to  rise  and  get  away.  Somewhat  nerve-shaken,  drenched, 
and  benumbed,  I  made  out  to  build  a  fire,  warmed  myself,  ran  home, 
reached  my  cabin  before  daylight,  got  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep,  and 
awoke  sound  and  comfortable,  better,  not  worse,  for  my  hard  midnight 
bath. — From  "The  Yosemite."  Copyright  by  The  Century  Co.,  New 
York,  and  used  by  their  kind  permission. 

THE  TORTURE  OF  THE  STRAIT-JACKET 
By  Jack  London 

Have  you  ever  seen  canvas  tarpaulins  or  rubber  blankets  with  brass 
eyelets  set  in  along  the  edges?    Then  imagine  a  piece  of  stout  canvas, 


260  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

some  four  and  one-half  feet  in  length,  with  large  and  heavy  brass 
eyelets  running  down  both  edges.  The  width  of  this  canvas  is  never 
the  full  girth  of  the  human  body  it  is  to  surround.  The  width  is  also 
irregular — broadest  at  the  shoulders,  next  broadest  at  the  hips,  and 
narrowest  at  the  waist. 

The  jacket  is  spread  on  the  floor.  The  man  who  is  to  be  punished, 
or  who  is  to  be  tortured  for  confession,  is  told  to  lie  face-downward 
on  the  flat  canvas.  If  he  refuses,  he  is  man-handled.  After  that  he 
lays  himself  down  with  a  will,  which  is  the  will  of  the  hang-dogs, 
which  is  your  will,  dear  citizen,  who  feeds  and  fees  the  hang-dogs 
for  doing  this  thing  for  you. 

The  man  lies  face-downward.  The  edges  of  the  jacket  are  brought 
as  nearly  together  as  possible  along  the  center  of  the  man's  back. 
Then  a  rope,  on  the  principle  of  a  shoe-lace,  is  run  through  the  eye- 
lets, and  on  the  principle  of  shoe-lacing  the  man  is  laced  in  the  canvas. 
Only  he  is  laced  more  severely  than  any  person  ever  laces  his  shoe. 
They  call  it  "cinching"  in  prison  lingo.  On  occasion,  when  the  guards 
are  cruel  and  vindictive  or  when  the  command  has  come  down  from 
above,  in  order  to  insure  the  severity  of  the  lacing  the  guards  press 
with  their  feet  into  the  man's  back  as  they  draw  the  lacing  tight. 

Have  you  ever  laced  your  shoe  too  tightly,  and,  after  half  an  hour 
experienced  that  excruciating  pain  across  the  instep  of  the  obstructed 
circulation?  And  do  you  remember  that  after  a  few  minutes  of  such 
pain  you  simply  could  not  walk  another  step  and  had  to  untie  the  shoe- 
lace and  ease  the  pressure?  Very  well.  Then  try  to  imagine  your 
whole  body  so  laced,  only  much  more  tightly,  and  that  the  squeeze, 
instead  of  being  merely  on  the  instep  of  one  foot,  is  on  your  entire 
trunk,  compressing  to  the  seeming  of  death  your  heart,  your  lungs, 
and  all  the  rest  of  your  vital  and  essential  organs. 

I  remember  the  first  time  they  gave  me  the  jacket  down  in  the 
dungeons.  It  was  at  the  beginning  of  my  incorrigibility,  shortly  after 
my  entrance  to  prison,  when  I  was  weaving  my  loom-task  of  a  hundred 
yards  a  day  in-  the  jute  mill  and  finishing  two  hours  ahead  of  the 
average  day.  Yes,  and  my  jute-sacking  was  far  above  the  average 
demanded.  I  was  sent  to  the  jacket  that  first  time,  according  to  the 
prison  books,  because  of  "skips"  and  "breaks"  in  the  cloth,  in  short, 
because  my  work  was  defective.  Of  course  this  was  ridiculous.  In 
truth,  I  was  sent  to  the  jacket  because  I,  a  new  convict,  a  master  of 
efficiency,  a  trained  expert  in  the  elimination  of  waste  motion,  had 
elected  to  tell  the  stupid  head-weaver  a  few  things  he  did  not  know 
about  his  business.    And  the  head-weaver,  with  Captain  Jamie  present, 


DRAMATIC  261 

had  me  called  to  the  table  where  atrocious  weaving,  such  as  could 
never  have  gone  through  my  loom,  was  exhibited  against  me.  Three 
times  was  I  thus  called  to  the  table.  The  third  calling  meant  punish- 
ment according  to  the  loom-room  rules.  My  punishment  was  twenty- 
four  hours  in  the  jacket. 

They  took  me  down  into  the  dungeon.  I  was  ordered  to  lie  face- 
downward  on  the  canvas  spread  flat  upon  the  floor.  I  refused.  One 
of  the  guards,  Morrison,  gulleted  me  with  his  thumbs.  Mobins,  the 
dungeon  trusty,  a  convict  himself,  struck  me  repeatedly  with  his  fists. 
In  the  end  I  lay  down  as  directed.  And,  because  of  the  struggle  I  had 
vexed  them  with,  they  laced  me  extra  tight.  Then  they  rolled  me  over 
like  a  log  upon  my  back. 

It  did  not  seem  so  bad  at  first.  When  they  closed  my  door,  with  a 
clang  and  clash  of  levered  boltage,  and  left  me  in  the  utter  dark,  it 
was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  For  a  few  minutes  I  was  aware 
merely  of  an  uncomfortable  constriction  which  I  fondly  believed  would 
ease  as  I  grew  accustomed  to  it.  On  the  contrary,  my  heart  began  to 
thump  and  my  lungs  seemed  unable  to  draw  sufficient  air  for  my 
blood.  This  sense  of  suffocation  was  terrorizing,  and  every  thump  of 
the  heart  threatened  to  burst  my  already  bursting  lungs. 

After  what  seemed  hours,  and  after  what,  out  of  my  countless  suc- 
ceeding experiences  in  that  jacket  I  can  now  fairly  conclude  to  have 
been  not  more  than  half  an  hour,  I  began  to  cry  out,  to  yell,  to 
scream,  to  howl,  in  a  very  madness  of  dying.  The  trouble  was  the 
pain  that  had  arisen  in  my  heart.  It  was  a  sharp,  definite  pain,  similar 
to  that  of  pleurisy,  except  that  it  stabbed  hotly  through  the  heart 
itself. 

To  die  is  not  a  difficult  thing,  but  to  die  in  such  slow  and  horrible 
fashion  was  maddening.  Like  a  trapped  beast  of  the  wild,  I  experienced 
ecstasies  of  fear,  and  yelled  and  howled  until  I  realized  that  such 
vocal  exercise  merely  stabbed  my  heart  more  hotly  and  at  the  same 
time  consumed  much  of  the  little  air  in  my  lungs. 

I  gave  over  and  lay  quiet  for  a  long  time — an  eternity  it  seemed 
then  though  now  I  am  confident  that  it  could  have  been  no  longer 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  grew  dizzy  with  semi-asphyxiation,  and 
my  heart  thumped  until  it  seemed  surely  it  would  burst  the  canvas 
that  bound  me.  Again  I  lost  control  of  myself  and  set  up  a  mad 
howling  for  help. 

In  the  midst  of  this  I  heard  a  voice  from  the  next  dungeon. 
"Shut   up,"    it    shouted,   though    only    faintly   it   percolated   to    me, 
"Shut  up.    You  make  me  tired," 


262  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"I'm  dying,"  I  cried  out. 

"Pound  your  ear  and  forget  it,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  I  am  dying,"  I  insisted. 

"Then  why  worry?"  came  the  voice.  "You'll  be  dead  pretty  quick 
an'  out  of  it.  Go  ahead  and  croak,  but  don't  make  so  much  noise 
about  it.    You're  interruptin'  my  beauty  sleep." 

So  angered  was  I  by  this  callous  indifference,  that  I  recovered  self- 
control  and  was  guilty  of  no  more  than  smothered  groans. — From  "The 
Star  Rover."  Copyrighted  by  The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  and 
used  with  their  kind  permission. 

A  SON  OF  COPPER  SIN 
By  Herman  Whitaker 

Within  his  bull's-hide  tepee,  old  Iz-le-roy  lay  and  fed  his  little  fire, 
stick  by  stick.  He  was  sick,  very  sick — sick  with  the  sickness  which 
is  made  up  of  equal  parts  of  hunger,  old  age,  fever  and  despair.  Just 
one  week  before  his  tribe  had  headed  up  for  Winnipegoos,  where  the 
whitefish  may  be  had  for  the  taking  and  the  moose  winter  in  their 
yards.  But  a  sick  man  may  not  travel  the  long  trail,  so  Iz-le-roy  had 
remained  at  White  Man's  Lake.  And  Batiste,  his  son,  stayed  also. 
Not  that  it  was  expected  of  him,  for,  according  to  forest  law,  the  man 
who  cannot  hunt  had  better  die;  but  Batiste  had  talked  with  the 
gentle  priest  of  Ellice,  and  had  chosen  to  depart  from  the  custom  of 
his  fathers. 

And  things  had  gone  badly,  very  badly,  since  the  tribe  had  marched. 
North,  south,  east  and  west,  the  round  of  the  plains,  and  through  the 
leafless  woods,  the  boy  had  hunted  without  as  much  as  a  jack-rabbit 
falling  to  his  gun.  For  two  days  no  food  had  passed  their  lips,  and 
now  he  was  gone  forth  to  do  that  which  Iz-le-roy  had  almost  rather 
die  than  have  him  do — ask  aid  of  the  settlers. 

"Yea,  my  son,"  the  old  warrier  had  faltered,  "these  be  they  that 
stole  the  prairies  of  our  fathers.  Yet  it  may  be  that  Big  Laugh,  best 
of  an  evil  brood,  will  give  us  of  his  store  of  flour  and  bacon." 

So,  after  placing  a  plentiful  stock  of  wood  close  to  the  old  man's 
hand,  Batiste  had  closed  the  tepee  flap  and  laced  it.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour's  fast  walking,  during  which  the  northern  sky  grew  dark  with 
the  threat  of  still  more  cruel  weather,  he  sighted  through  the  drift 
a  spurting  column  of  smoke. 

The  smoke  marked  the  cabin  of  John  Sterling,  and  also  his  present 


DRAMATIC  263 

occupation.  Within,  John  sat  and  fired  the  stove,  while  Avis,  his 
daughter,  set  out  the  breakfast  dishes,  and  his  wife  turned  the  sizzling 
bacon  in  the  pan. 

"I  declare,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  pausing,  knife  in  hand,  "if  that 
bread  ain't  froze  solid !" 

"Cold  last  night,"  commented  Sterling.    "Put  it  in  the  oven,  Mary." 

As  she  stooped  to  obey,  the  door  quietly  opened  and  Batiste  slipped 
in.  His  moose  moccasins  made  no  noise,  and  he  was  standing  close 
beside  her  when  she  straightened.     She  jumped  and  gasped: 

"Lor'  V  mercy!     How  you  do  scare  one!     Why  don't  you  knock?" 

Batiste  stared.  It  was  the  custom  of  his  tribe  thus  to  enter  a  house, 
a  custom  established  before  jails  were  built  or  locks  invented.  His 
eye  therefore  roamed  questioningly  from  one  to  another  until  Sterling 
asked : 

"What  d'ye  want,  young  fellow?" 

Batiste  pointed  to  the  frying  pan.  "Bakin!"  he  muttered.  "The 
bakin  of  Big  Laugh,  I  want.  Iz-le-roy  sick,  plenty  sick.  Him  want 
flour,  him  want  ba-kin." 

The  thought  of  his  father's  need  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  realizing 
the  impossibility  of  expressing  himself  in  English,  he  broke  into  a 
voluble  stream  of  Cree,  punctuating  its  rolling  gutturals  with  energetic 
signs.     While  he  was  speaking,  Avis  ceased  rattling  her  dishes. 

"He  looks  awfully  hungry,  dad,"  she  whispered,  as  Batiste  finished. 

Now,  though  Sterling  was  a  large-souled,  generous  man,  and  jovial 
— as  evidenced  by  his  name  of  Big  Laugh — it  happened  that,  during 
the  past  summer,  a  roving  band  of  Sioux  had  camped  hard  by  and 
begged  him  out  of  patience.  That  morning,  too,  the  threatening 
weather  had  spoiled  an  intended  trip  to  Russel  and  touched  his  temper 
— of  which  he  had  a  goodly  share. 

"Can't  help  it,  girl,"  he  snapped.  "If  we  feed  every  hungry  Injun 
that  comes  along,  we'll  soon  be  out  of  house  and  home.  Can't  do 
anything  for  you,  boy." 

"Him  want  ba-kin,"  Batiste  said. 

"Well,  you  can  just  want." 

"Iz-le-roy  sick,  him  want  ba-kin,"  the  boy  pleaded. 

His  persistence  irritated  Sterling,  and,  crowding  down  the  better 
feeling  which  spoke  for  the  lad,  he  sprang  up,  threw  wide  the  door, 
and  shouted: 

"Get,  you  son  of  copper  sin!     Get,  now!    Quick!" 

"Father!"  pleaded  the  girl. 

But  he  took  no  heed,  and  held  wide  the  door. 


264  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Into  Batiste's  face  flashed  surprise,  anger  and  resentment.  Surprise, 
because  he  had  not  believed  all  the  things  Iz-le-roy  had  told  him  of 
the  white  men,  but  had  preferred  to  think  them  all  like  Father  Francis. 
But  now?  His  father  was  right.  They  were  all  cold  and  merciless, 
their  hearts  hard  as  their  steel  ax-heads,  their  tongues  sharp  as  the 
cutting  edge.  With  head  held  high  he  marched  through  the  door, 
away  from  the  hot  stove,  the  steaming  coffee,  and  the  delicious  smell 
of  frying  bacon,  out  into  the  cold  storm. 

"Oh,  father!"  remonstrated  his  wife,  as  Sterling  closed  the  door. 

"Look  here,  Mary,"  he  answered  testily,  "we  fed  a  whole  tribe  last 
summer,  didn't  we?" 

"But  this  lad  don't  belong  to  them,"  she  pleaded. 

"All  the  worse,"  he  rejoined.  "Do  an  Injun  a  good  turn  an'  he 
never  forgets.  Give  him  his  breakfast,  an'  he  totes  his  tribe  along 
to  dinner." 

"Well,"  sighed  the  good  woman,  "I'm  real  sorry." 

For  a  few  moments  both  were  silent.  And  presently,  as  the  man's 
kindly  nature  began  to  triumph  over  his  irritation,  he  hitched  uneasily 
in  his  chair.  Already  he  felt  ashamed.  Casting  a  sheepish  glance  at 
his  wife,  he  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  and  looked  out.  But  a  wall 
of  whirling  white  blocked  his  vision.     Batiste  was  gone  beyond  recall. 

"Where's  Avis?"  he  asked,  returning  to  the  stove. 

"A-vis!"  called  her  mother. 

But  there  was  no  answer.  For  a  moment  man  and  wife  stared 
each  other  in  the  eye ;  then,  moved  by  a  common  impulse,  they  walked 
into  the  kitchen.  There,  on  the  table,  lay  the  half  of  a  fresh-cut  side 
of  bacon ;  the  bread-box  was  open  and  a  crusty  loaf  missing ;  the  girl's 
shawl  was  gone  from  its  peg  and  her  overshoes  from  their  corner. 

"Good  God  1"  gasped  the  settler.     "The  child's  gone  after  him !" 

They  knew  the  risk.  All  the  morning  the  storm  had  been  brewing, 
and  now  it  thundered  by,  a  veritable  blizzard.  The  blizzard !  King  of 
storms !  It  compels  the  settler  to  string  a  wire  from  house  to  stables, 
it  sets  men  to  circling  in  the  snow,  it  catches  little  children  coming 
home  from  school  and  buries  them  in  its  monstrous  drifts. 

Without  another  word  Sterling  wound  a  scarf  about  his  neck,  grabbed 
his  badger  mitts,  and  rushed  outside. 

When  Avis  softly  closed  the  kitchen  door  she  could  just  see  Batiste 
rounding  a  bluff  that  lay  a  furlong  west  of  her  father's  stables.  She 
started  after  him ;  but  by  the  time  she  had  covered  half  the  distance  a 
sea  of  white  swept  in  between  and  blotted  him  from  view. 

She  struggled  on,  and  on,  and  still  on,  until,  in  spite  of  the  seventy 


DRAMATIC  265 

degrees  of  frost,  the  perspiration  burst  from  every  pore  and  the  scud 
melted  on  her  glowing  face.  This  was  well  enough — so  long  as  she 
kept  moving;  but  when  the  time  came  that  she  must  stop,  she  would 
freeze  all  the  quicker  for  her  present  warmth. 

This,  being  born  and  bred  of  the  prairie,  Avis  knew,  and  the  knowl- 
edge kept  her  toiling,  toiling  on,  until  her  tired  legs  and  leaden  feet 
compelled  a  pause  in  the  shelter  of  a  bluff.  She  was  hungry,  too. 
All  this  time  she  carried  the  bread  and  meat,  and  now,  unconscious 
of  a  pair  of  slant  eyes  which  glared  from  a  willow  thicket,  she  broke 
the  loaf  and  began  to  eat.  While  she  ate,  the  green  lights  in  the  eyes 
flared  brighter,  a  long  red  tongue  licked  the  drool  from  grinning  jaws, 
and  forth  from  his  covert  stole  a  lank,  gray  wolf. 

Avis  uttered  a  startled  cry.  This  was  no  coyote,  to  be  chased  with 
a  stick,  but  a  wolf  of  timber  stock,  a  great  beast,  heavy,  prick-eared, 
strong  as  a  mastiff.  His  nose  puckered  in  a  wicked  snarl  as  he  slunk 
in  half-circles  across  her  front.  He  was  undecided.  So,  while  he 
circled,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind,  drawing  a  little  nearer  at  every 
turn,  Avis  fell  back — back  towards  the  bluff,  keeping  her  white  face 
always  to  the  creeping  beast. 

It  was  a  small  bluff,  lacking  a  tree  large  enough  to  climb,  but  suffi- 
cient for  her  purpose.  On  its  edge  she  paused,  threw  the  bacon  to 
the  wolf,  and  then  ran  desperately.  Once  clear  of  the  scrub,  she  ran 
on,  plunging  through  drifts,  stumbling,  falling,  to  rise  again  and  push 
her  flight.  Of  direction  she  took  no  heed;  her  only  thought  was  to 
place  distance  between  herself  and  the  red-mouthed  brute.  But  when, 
weary  and  breathless,  she  paused  for  rest,  out  of  the  drab  drift  stole 
the  lank,  gray  shadow. 

The  brute  crouched  a  few  yards  away,  licking  his  sinful  lips,  winking 
his  devil  eyes.  She  still  had  the  loaf.  As  she  threw  it,  the  wolf 
sprang  and  snapped  it  in  mid-air.  Then  she  ran,  and  ran,  and  ran, 
as  the  tired  doe  runs  from  the  hounds.  For  what  seemed  to  her  an 
interminable  time,  though  it  was  less  than  five  minutes,  she  held  on; 
then  stopped,  spent,  unable  to  take  another  step.  Looking  back,  she 
saw  nothing  of  the  wolf;  but  just  when  she  began  to  move  slowly 
forward,  thinking  he  had  given  up  the  chase,  a  gray  shape  loomed 
right  ahead. 

Uttering  a  bitter  cry,  she  turned  once  more,  tottered  a  few  steps, 
and  fainted. 

As,  wildly  calling  his  daughter's  name,  Sterling  rushed  by  his  stables, 
the  wind  smote  him  with  tremendous  power.  Like  a  living  thing  it 
buffeted  him  about  the  ears,  tore  at  his  breath,  poured  over  him  an 


266  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

avalanche  of  snow.  Still  he  pressed  on  and  gained  the  bluff  which 
Avis  missed. 

As  he  paused  to  draw  a  free  breath,  his  eye  picked  out  a  fresh-made 
track.  Full  of  a  sudden  hope,  he  shouted.  A  voice  answered,  and  as 
he  rushed  eagerly  forward  a  dark  figure  came  through  the  drift  to 
meet  him.    It  was  Batiste. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

Sterling  was  cruelly  disappointed,  but  he  answered  quickly:  "You 
see  my  girl?  Yes,  my  girl,"  he  repeated,  noting  the  lad's  look  of 
wonder.     "Young  white  squaw,  you  see  urn?" 

"Mooniah  papoose?"  queried  Batiste. 

"Yes,  yes!  She  follow  you.  Want  give  you  bread,  want  give  you 
bacon.    All  gone,  all  lost !"     Sterling  finished  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Squaw  marche  to  me?    Ba-kin  for  me?"  questioned  Batiste. 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Sterling,  in  a  flurry  of  impatience. 

"I  find  urn,"  he  said,  softly. 

Briefly  Batiste  laid  down  his  plan,  eking  out  his  scanty  English  with 
vivid  signs.  In  snow,  the  white  man  rolls  along  like  a  clumsy  buffalo, 
planting  his  feet  far  out  to  the  right  and  left.  And  because  his  right 
leg  steps  a  little  further  than  the  left,  he  always,  when  lost,  travels  in 
a  circle.  Wherefore  Batiste  indicated  that  they  should  move  along 
parallel  lines,  just  shouting  distance  apart,  so  as  to  cover  the  largest 
possible  ground. 

"Young  squaw  marche  slow.  She  there  1"  He  pointed  north  and 
east  with  a  gesture.    "Yes,  there!" 

Batiste  paused  until  Sterling  got  his  distance;  then,  keeping  the 
wind  slanting  to  his  left  cheek,  he  moved  off  north  and  east.  Ever 
and  anon  he  stopped  to  give  forth  a  piercing  yell.  If  Sterling  an- 
swered, he  moved  on;  if  not — as  happened  twice — he  traveled  in  his 
direction  until  they  were  once  m'ore  in  touch.  And  so,  shouting  and 
yelling,  they  bore  off  north  and  east  for  a  long  half-hour. 

After  that,  Batiste  began  to  throw  his  cries  both  east  and  west,  for 
he  judged  that  they  must  be  closing  on  the  girl.  And  suddenly,  from 
the  north,  came  a  weird,  tremulous  answer.  He  started,  and  throw- 
ing up  his  head,  emitted  the  wolf's  long  howl.  Leaning  forward,  he 
waited — his  very  soul  in  his  ears — until,  shrill  yet  deep-chested  and 
quivering  with  ferocity,  came  back  the  answering  howl. 

No  coyote  gave  forth  that  cry,  and  Batiste  knew  it. 

"Timber  wolf!"  he  muttered. 

Turning  due  north,  he  gave  the  settler  a  warning  yell,  then  sped 
like  a  hunted  deer  in  the  direction  of  the  cry.    He  ran  with  the  long. 


DRAMATIC  267 

lithe  lope  which  tires  down  even  the  swift  elk,  and  in  five  minutes 
covered  nearly  a  mile.  Once  more  he  gave  forth  the  wolf  howl.  An 
answer  came  close  by,  but  as  he  sprang  forward  it  ended  with  a 
frightened  yelp.  Through  a  break  in  the  drift  he  spied  a  moving 
figure;  then  a  swirl  swept  in  and  blotted  it  from  view. 

But  he  had  seen  the  girl.  A  dozen  leaps  and  he  was  close  upon  her. 
Just  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  she  screamed  and  plunged 
headlong. 

When  consciousness  returned,  Avis  was  lying  on  her  own  bed.  Her 
mother  bent  over  her;  Sterling  stood  near  by.  All  around  were  the 
familiar  things  of  life,  but  her  mind  still  retained  a  vivid  picture  of 
her  flight,  and  she  sprang  up  screaming: 

"The  wolf;  oh,  the  wolfl" 

"Hush,  dearie,"  her  mother  soothed.  "It  wasn't  a  wolf,  but  just 
the  Cree  boy." 

Batiste  had  told  how  she  screamed  at  the  sight  of  his  gray,  snow- 
covered  blanket,  and  the  cry  had  carried  even  to  her  father.  But 
when  she  recovered  sufficiently  to  tell  her  story,  the  father  shuddered 
and  the  mother  exclaimed: 

"John,  we  owe  that  boy  more  than  we  can  ever  pay!" 

"We  do !"  he  fervently  agreed. 

Just  then  the  latch  of  the  other  door  clicked,  and  a  cold  blast 
streamed  into  the  bedroom.    Jumping  up,  the  mother  cried: 

"Run,  John;  he's  going!" 

"Here,  young  fellow  1"  shouted  the  settler. 

Batiste  paused  in  the  doorway,  his  hand  on  the  latch,  his  slight  body 
silhouetted  against  the  white  of  the  storm. 

"Where  you  going,  boy?" 

"To  Iz-le-roy,"  he  answered.     "Him  sick.     Bezhou!" 

Sterling  strode  forward  and  caught  him  by  the  shoulder.  "No,  you 
don't,"  he  said,  "not  that  way."  Then,  turning,  he  called  into  the 
bedroom:  "Here*,  mother!  Get  out  all  your  wraps  while  I  hitch  the 
ponies.  And  fix  up  our  best  bed  for  a  sick  man." — From  "The  Pro- 
bationer," copyright  and  used  by  the  kind  permission  of  author  and 
publishers,  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York. 

SOMBRE1 
By  William  Wetmore  Story 
Long  golden  beams  from  the  setting  sun  swept  over  the  plains  of 

1  Pronounced  "Sombray." 


268  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Andalusia,  and  fell  upon  the  Geralda  tower  of  the  great  cathedral  of 
Sevilla,  many  miles  in  the  distance.  In  their  path  they  illumined  a 
stretch  of  vast  pastures  enclosed  by  whitened  stone  walls,  and  dotted 
with  magnificent  cattle.  In  a  far  corner  of  one  of  the  enclosures  the 
figure  of  a  young  girl  passed  through  an  arched  stone  gateway.  As 
she  paused  to  look  upon  the  scattered  groups  of  grazing  beasts,  the 
level  rays  played  in  lights  and  shadows  upon  the  waving  masses 
of  dark  chestnut  hair,  richly  health-tinted  young  face,  creamy  neck, 
and  large,  lustrous  eyes  now  painfully  dry,  as  if  tears  were  ex- 
hausted. She  gazed  from  group  to  group,  calling  eagerly,  "Sombre! 
Sombre !" 

A  pair  of  long,  gleaming  horns  rose  abruptly  amid  the  browsing 
herd,  and  a  magnificent  bull  came  towards  her  at  a  brisk  trot.  The 
sunbeams  glinted  upon  his  dark  coat  as  it  swelled  and  sank  under 
the  play  of  powerful  muscles.  His  neck  and  shoulders  were  leonine 
in  massive  strength,  the  legs  and  hind-quarters  as  sleek  and  sym- 
metrical as  those"  of  a  race-horse,  but  his  ferociousness  was  held  in 
check  by  that  devoted  love  dumb  animals  express  for  those  who  love 
them.  t 

In  a  moment  the  young  girl's  white  arms  were  thrown  around  the 
animal's  dusky  neck,  and  her  cheek  was  lain  against  the  silken  skin. 
"Oh,"  Sombre  1"  she  murmured,  "do  you  know  what  they  are  going 
to  do  with  you?  Papa  wants  to  send  you  to  the  Plaza  de  Torosl  I 
have  begged  him  in  vain  to  spare  you.  Does  he  think  after  Anita 
has  brought  you  from  a  tiny  calf  to  be  such  a  beautiful,  dear  toro 
that  she  can  give  you  to  the  cruel  matador  to  be  tortured,  made  crazy 
and  killed?" 

She  was  sobbing  bitterly,  and  the  devoted  beast  was  striving  vainly 
to  turn  his  head  far  enough  to  lick  the  fair  neck  bending  down 
upon  his.  Presently  the  sobbing  ceased,  and  she  stroked  the  strong 
shoulders  with  her  small  hand. 

"Never  fear,  Sombre,  if  they  take  you  to  Sevilla  Anita  will  find  a 
way  to  save  youl    Now,  say  good  night." 

Sombre  thrust  out  his  huge  tongue  and  licked  the  little  hand  and 
arms.  Then  she  bent  forward  and  kissed  him  on  the  frowning,  furry 
forehead  and  departed. 

Anita's  path  homeward  lay  through  another  field  where  a  herd  of 
cattle  were  being  driven.  A  young  herdsman,  riding  a  strong  horse 
at  a  brisk  canter,  saw  the  young  girl  enter  from  the  adjoining  pasture. 
With  joyful  exclamation  in  English  he  rode  towards  her  calling, 
"Anita,  have  you  seen  the  posters?" 


DRAMATIC  269 

Waiting  until  he  reached  her  side,  with  bated  breath  she  asked, 
"Is — is  Sombre  advertised?" 

"Yes,  on  the  outer  gateway.  But  here,  I  have  a  poster  in  my 
pocket." 

Plana  de  Toros  de  Sevilla 

May  17. 

Anniversary  of  the  King's  Birthday, 

Six  Bulls  to  be  killed, 

The  two  magnificent  brother  bulls 

Sol  and  Sombre, 

and  others  very  ferocious, 

against 

The  intrepid  Matadores, 

Lariat 0,  the  American,  and 

Amador,  of  Sevilla. 

"It  is  cruel  of  them,  cruel!  (Reading)  'Lariato,  the  American/ 
Why,  that  is  yourself!  You  will  spare  him!  You  will  spare  my 
Sombre!" 

"They  do  not  permit  me  to  fight  Don  Alonzo's  bulls,  for  I  raise 
them  and  they  would  not  fight  me.     Amador  will  fight  Sombre." 

"No,  no!  You  must  fight  Sombre.  That  wicked  Amador  will  kill 
him !" 

"But  so  would  I,  Anita,  or  be  killed  by  him !" 

Anita  was  silent  for  a  time;  suddenly  she  exclaimed:  "Orlando, 
do  you  love  me  well  enough  to  put  faith  in  a  promise  which  will  seem 
impossible  of  fulfillment?" 

"God  knows  I  do !" 

"Then  listen ;  if  Sombre  goes  to  the  Plaza  de  Toros,  you  must  fight 
him  and  spare  him  even  though  they  hiss  and  jeer  at  you." 

"Death  is  easier.  Perhaps  the  managers  will  let  me  fight  him,  for 
you  have  raised  him,  and  I  can  tell  them  that  I  have  scarcely  seen 
him.    I  will  fight  him,  Anita,  and  for  your  sake  I  will  let  him  kill  me !" 

"No,  no,  Orlando,  for  this  is  my  promise,  even  in  the  last  extremity 
Sombre  shall  not  harm  you!" 

"And  then,  Anita!" 

"Then  I  will  leave  my  father's  house  and  go  with  you.  We  will 
buy  Sombre  and  go  to  those  plains  in  your  country  you  love  so  to 
tell  about.  You  will  become  a  ranch  hero,  and  Sombre  shall  be  the 
patriarch  of  our  herd!" 

"I  have  tried  that  once  and  failed !" 


270  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Ah,  but  you  had  neither  Sombre  nor  Anita  then  !"  And  waving  him 
a  kiss  she  ran  off  across  the  field. 

On  the  17th  of  May,  in  the  Plaza  de  Toros,  there  was  a  murmur 
from  thousands  of  throats  like  the  magnified  hum  of  bees.  Amador 
of  Sevilla  had  killed  several  bulls  and  now  there  was  a  short  inter- 
mission. In  a  stall  of  the  lowest  tier  sat  Anita  alone.  Presently  a 
band  of  music  began  a  stately  march,  and  under  a  high  stone  arch- 
way a  long  procession  advanced.  First,  gaudily  caparisoned  picadors 
on  blindfolded  studs,  two  by  two,  separated  and  came  to  a  halt,  facing 
the  center,  with  long  lances  abreast.  Then  red-coated  toreadors  carry- 
ing long  barbs,  with  brilliant  streamers  of  ribbon,  grouped  themselves 
near  the  heavy  closed  doors  of  the  bull-pen;  finally,  the  capeadors  in 
yellow  satin,  carrying  flaming  red  capes  on  their  arms,  filed  around 
like  the  mounted  picadors  and  stood  between  their  studs. 

The  music  ceased,  the  murmur  of  voices  died  away,  and  the  gates 
of  the  bull-pen  were  thrown  open.  At  a  quick  trot,  a  great  black  bull 
dashed  in,  receiving  in  his  shoulders  as  he  passed  the  toreador's  two 
short  barbs.    Anita  gripped  her  chair  and  gasped,  "Sombre  1" 

Coming  from  a  darkened  pen,  Sombre  had  trotted  eagerly  forward, 
expecting  to  find  himself  once  more  in  his  loved  pastures,  but  he 
paused,  bewildered  in  the  glare  of  light.  Hither  and  thither  he  turned 
in  nervous  abruptness,  his  head  raised  high,  his  tail  slowly  lashing 
his  flanks.  Then  he  lowered  his  grand  head  and  sniffed  the  earth, 
and  then  he  smelled  fresh,  warm  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  kind. 
With  gathering  rage  he  lowered  his  keen  horns  close  to  the  ground 
and  gave  a  deep,  hoarse  bellow  of  defiance,  flinging  clod  after  clod 
with  his  forefeet  high  above  his  back.  Then  there  flaunted  toward 
him  a  red  object  at  which  he  charged,  but  it  swept  aside,  and  a  new 
sting  of  pain  was  felt  in  his  neck,  and  warm  blood  was  trickling  over 
his  glossy  skin.  Again  and  again  he  charged,  but  each  time  the  red 
thing  vanished  and  there  was  more  pain,  more  torturing  barbs  that 
maddened  him. 

Presently  a  horseman  advanced  with  lowered  spear.  Surely  horse 
and  rider  could  not  vanish.  Ah,  no !  Sombre  found  that  it  was  not 
intended  that  they  should.  Rushing  upon  them  he  struck  them  with 
such  a  blow  that  they  were  forced  backwards  twenty  feet  and  both 
gave  a  scream  of  pain.  The  picador  was  dragged  away  with  a  broken 
leg,  and  the  horse  lay  lifeless,  for  Sombre's  horn  had  pierced  its 
heart.  Instantly  a  great  cry  went  up  from  that  crater  of  humanity, 
"Bravo!     Bravo,  Toro !     Bravo,   Sombre!" 

More  than  once  he  earned  that  grand  applause,  then  his  tormentors 


DRAMATIC  271 

disappeared  and  through  one  of  the  archways  advanced  a  young  man 
tall  and  athletic.  On  his  left  arm  hung  a  scarlet  mantle,  and  in  his 
right  hand  he  carried  a  long,  keen  sword.  Passing  under  the  archway, 
the  matador  swept  his  sword  in  military  salute,  then  with  lowered 
point  he  stepped  into  the  arena  and  faced  his  antagonist.  Upon  all  fell 
an  awful  silence,  for  Lariato  and  Sombre  were  met  in  a  struggle  to 
the  death! 

For  a  time  the  combatants  stood  motionless,  eyeing  each  other  in- 
tently. .  Then  came  stealthy  movements,  hither  and  thither,  then 
thundering,  desperate  charges,  and  graceful,  hair-breadth  escapes.  At 
last  in  one  great  charge,  Sombre's  horn  tore  the  mantle  from  Lariato's 
arm  and  carrying  it  half  around  the  ring,  as  a  flaming  banner,  the 
bull  ground  and  trampled  it  in  the  dust.  A  slight  hissing  was  heard 
in  the  audience  which  turned  to  thundering  applause  when  Lariato 
contemptuously  refused  a  new  mantle !  The  audience  became  breath- 
less, the  man  alone  was  now  the  mad  beast's  target! 

Sombre,  dripping  with  blood  and  perspiration,  his  flanks  swelling 
and  falling  in  his  great  gasps  for  breath,  his  eyes  half  blinded  by  the 
dust  and  glare  of  the  arena,  gave  the  matador  one  brief  glance,  then 
with  head  low  down,  charged  upon  him.  Lariato's  long  keen  blade 
was  lowered  confidently  to  its  death-dealing  slant. 

Just  as  the  murderous  sword-point  seemed  about  to  sink  through 
the  bull's  shoulders,  into  his  very  heart,  a  despairing  woman's  cry 
reached  the  matador's  ears.  Then  a  mighty  hiss,  interspersed  with 
hoots  and  jeers,  went  up  from  the  exasperated  spectators,  for  the  bull 
thundered  on,  with  the  sword  scarcely  penetrating  the  tough  muscles, 
standing  upright  between  his  shoulders,  while  Lariato  stood  disarmed. 

Coming  to  a  standstill  far  beyond  his  antagonist,  Sombre  shook 
his  huge  neck  and  the  sword  spun  high  into  the  air  and  fell  toward 
the  center  of  the  ring.  Lariato  took  several  steps  toward  it,  but 
tottered  and  fell  upon  the  ground  in  a  swoon,  for  he  had  been  severely 
bruised. 

With  an  exultant  roar,  the  bull  rushed  back  to  complete  his  victory; 
the  hissing  and  the  hooting  was  hushed,  and  groans  of  horror  filled 
the  air.  Suddenly,  just  as  the  animal  had  gained  full  headway  in  his 
murderous  charge,  a  slight,  white  figure  glided  into  the  ring,  and  a 
clear  voice  cried  "Sombre!" 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  the  charging  beast  came  strainingly  to 
a  halt,  threw  up  his  head,  and  gazed  eagerly  about,  then  turned  and 
rushed  toward  the  girl!  Capeadors  hurried  forward  flaunting  their 
red  capes,  but  she  waved  them  back. 


272  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Go  back!  You  shall  torment  him  no  more,  my  poor,  tortured, 
wounded  Sombre!" 

In  a  moment  the  great  beast  was  beside  her,  licking  her  dress  and 
arms  and  hands.  As  she  deftly  extricated  the  barbs  from  his  neck  and 
shoulders,  the  thousands  of  throats  around  them  shrieked  out  a  vast 
pandemonium  of  bravos.  Blood  was  covering  her  hands  and  staining 
her  dress,  but  Anita  was  blind  to  it.  Meanwhile  Lariato  had  struggled 
to  his  feet  and  hurried  towards  her.  "God  bless  you,"  he  was  saying, 
but  she  pushed  past  him  with  a  glad  smile,  saying,  "Wait,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  them!" 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  Anita  waited  for  silence.  De- 
laying until  not  a  sound  was  heard,  she  said  in  a  clear  voice  that 
reached  every  ear: 

"Jeer  not  at  Lariato ;  he  spared  my  pet,  my  Sombre,  because  he  loved 
me." 

No  matador  ever  gained  such  applause  as  followed.  Bouquets, 
sombreros,  scarfs,  and  full  purses  showered  into  the  ring,  and  as  that 
strange  group  stood  facing  the  ovation,  "Bravo,  Lariato,  Bravo,  la 
Seriorita  de  Toros,  Bravo,  Sombre  1"  rang  out  and  reechoed  over  the 
distant  housetops. 

A  COMBAT  IN  THE  ARENA 
By  George  Croly 

A  portal  of  the  arena  opened,  and  the  combatant,  with  a  mantle 
thrown  over  his  face  and  figure,  was  led  into  the  surroundery.  The 
lion  roared  and  ramped  against  the  bars  of  his  den  at  the  sight.  The 
guard  put  a  sword  and  buckler  into  the  hands  of  the  Christian,  and  he 
was  left  alone.  He  drew  the  mantle  from  his  face,  and  bent  a  slow 
and  firm  look  around  the  amphitheater.  His  fine  countenance  and  lofty 
bearing  raised  a  universal  shout  of  admiration.  He  might  have  stood 
for  an  Apollo  encountering  the  Python.  His  eyes  at  last  turned  on 
mine.    Could  I  believe  my  senses?     Constantius  was  before  me. 

All  my  rancour  vanished.  An  hour  past,  I  could  have  struck  the 
betrayer  of  the  heart — I  could  have  called  on  the  severest  vengeance 
of  man  and  heaven  to  smite  the  destroyer  of  my  child.  But  to  see 
him  hopelessly  doomed,  the  man  whom  I  had  honored  for  his  noble 
qualities,  whom  I  had  even  loved,  whose  crime  was,  at  the  worst,  but 
the  crime  of  giving  way  to  the  strongest  temptation  that  can  bewilder 
the  heart  of  man;  to  see  the  noble  creature  flung  to  the  savage  beast, 


DRAMATIC  273 

dying  in  tortures,  torn  piecemeal  before  my  eyes,  and  his  misery 
wrought  by  me,  I  would  have  supplicated  earth  and  heaven  to  save 
him.  But  my  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  My  limbs 
refused  to  stir.  I  would  have  thrown  myself  at  the  feet  of  Nero; 
but  I  sat  like  a  man  of  stone — pale — paralyzed — the  beating  of  my 
pulse  stopped — my  eyes  alone  alive. 

The  gate  of  the  den  was  thrown  back,  and  the  lion  rushed  in  with 
a  roar  and  a  bound  that  bore  him  half  across  the  arena.  I  saw  the 
sword  glitter  in  the  air;  when  it  waved  again,  it  was  covered  with 
blood.  A  howl  told  that  the  blow  had  been  driven  home.  The  lion, 
one  of  the  largest  of  Numidia,  and  made  furious  by  thirst  and  hunger, 
an  animal  of  prodigious  power,  crouched  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  make 
sure  of  his  prey,  crept  a  few  paces  onward,  and  sprang  at  the  victim's 
throat.  He  was  met  by  a  second  wound,  but  his  impulse  was  ir- 
resistible. A  cry  of  natural  horror  rang  round  the  amphitheater.  The 
struggle  was  now  for  an  instant,  life  or  death.  They  rolled  over  each 
other;  the  lion,  reared  upon  his  hind  feet  with  gnashing  teeth  and 
distended  talons,  plunged  on  the  man;  again  they  rose  together. 
Anxiety  was  now  at  its  wildest  height.  The  sword  now  swung  round 
the  Christian's  head  in  bloody  circles.  They  fell  again,  covered  with 
blood  and  dust.  The  hand  of  Constantius  had  grasped  the  lion's  mane, 
and  the  furious  bounds  of  the  monster  could  not  lose  his  hold;  but 
his  strength  was  evidently  giving  way — he  still  struck  his  terrible 
blows,  but  each  was  weaker  than  the  one  before;  till,  collecting  his 
whole  force  for  a  last  effort,  he  darted  one  mighty  blow  into  the 
lion's  throat  and  sank.  The  savage  beast  yelled,  and  spouting  out 
blood,  fled  howling  around  the  arena.  But  the  hand  still  grasped  the 
mane,  and  the  conqueror  was  dragged  whirling  through  the  dust  at 
his  heels.  A  universal  outcry  now  arose  to  save  him,  if  he  were  not 
already  dead.  But  the  lion,  though  bleeding  from  every  vein,  was 
still  too  terrible,  and  all  shrank  from  the  hazard.  At  last,  the  grasp 
gave  way,  and  the  body  lay  motionless  on  the  ground. 

What  happened  for  some  moments  after,  I  know  not.  There  was 
a  struggle  at  the  portal;  a  female  forced  her  way  through  the  guards, 
rushed  in  alone,  and  flung  herself  upon  the  victim.  The  sight  of  a 
new  prey  roused  the  lion;  he  tore  the  ground  with  his  talons;  he 
lashed  his  streaming  sides  with  his  tail;  he  lifted  up  his  mane  and 
bared  his  fangs.  But  his  approaching  was  no  longer  with  a  bound; 
he  dreaded  the  sword,  and  came  sniffing  the  blood  on  the  sand,  and 
stealing  round  the  body  in  circuits  still  diminishing. 

The  confusion  in  the  vast  assemblage  was  now  extreme.     Voices 

i 


274  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

innumerable  called  for  aid.  Women  screamed  and  fainted,  men  burst 
into  indignant  clamors  at  this  prolonged  cruelty.  Even  the  hard  hearts 
of  the  populace,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  sacrifice  of  life,  were 
roused  to  honest  curses.  The  guards  grasped  their  arms,  and  waited 
but  for  a  sign  from  the  emperor.     But  Nero  gave  no  sign. 

I  looked  upon  the  woman's  face ;  it  was  Salome  1  I  sprang  upon  my 
feet.  I  called  on  her  name;  called  on  her,  by  every  feeling  of  nature, 
to  fly  from  that  place  of  death,  to  come  to  my  arms,  to  think  of  the 
agonies  of  all  that  loved  her. 

She  had  raised  the  head  of  Constantius  on  her  knee,  and  was  wiping 
the  pale  visage  with  her  hair.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  she  looked 
up,  and,  calmly  casting  back  the  locks  from  her  forehead,  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  me.  She  still  knelt;  one  hand  supported  the  head — with 
the  other  she  pointed  to  it  as  her  only  answer.  I  again  adjured  her. 
There  was  the  silence  of  death  among  the  thousands  around  me.  A 
fire  dashed  into  her  eye — her  cheek  burned — she  waved  her  hand  with 
an  air  of  superb  sorrow. 

"I  am  come  to  die,"  she  uttered,  in  a  lofty  tone.  "This  bleeding 
body  was  my  husband — I  have  no  father.  The  world  contains  to  me 
but  this  clay  in  my  arms.  Yet,"  and  she  kissed  the  ashy  lips  before 
her,  "yet,  my  Constantius,  it  was  to  save  that  father  that  your  generous 
heart  defied  the  peril  of  this  hour.  It  was  to  redeem  him  from  the 
hand  of  evil  that  you  abandoned  your  quiet  home ! — Yes,  cruel  father, 
here  lies  the  noble  being  that  threw  open  your  dungeon,  that  led  you 
safe  through  the  conflagration,  that,  to  the  last  moment  of  his  liberty, 
only  sought  how  he  might  preserve  and  protect  you."  Tears  at  length 
fell  in  floods  from  her»eyes.  "But,"  said  she,  in  tones  of  wild  power, 
"he  was  betrayed,  and  may  the  Power  whose  thunders  avenge  the 
cause  of  his  people,  pour  down  just  retribution  upon  the  head  that 
dared—" 

I  heard  my  own  condemnation  about  to  be  pronounced  by  the  lips 
of  my  own  child.  Wound  up  to  the  last  degree  of  suffering,  I  tore  my 
hair,  leaped  upon  the  bars  before  me,  and  plunged  into  the  arena  by 
her  side.  The  height  stunned  me;  I  tottered  a  few  paces  and  fell. 
The  lion  gave  a  roar  and  sprang  upon  me.  I  lay  helpless  under  him, 
I  heard  the  gnashing  of  his  white  fangs  above  me. 

An  exulting  shout  arose.  I  saw  him  reel  as  if  struck — gore  filled 
his  jaws.  Another  mighty  blow  was  driven  to  his  heart.  He  sprang 
high  in  the  air  with  a  howl.  He  dropped;  he  was  dead.  The  amphi- 
theater thundered  with  acclamations. 

With  Salome  clinging  to  my  bosom,   Constantius  raised  me   from 

I 


DRAMATIC  275 

the  ground — the  roar  of  the  lion  had  roused  him  from  his  swoon, 
and  two  blows  saved  me.  The  falchion  had  broken  in  the  heart  of 
the  monster. 

The  whole  multitude  stood  up,  supplicating  for  our  lives  in  the  name 
of  filial  piety  and  heroism.  Nero,  devil  as  he  was,  dared  not  resist  the 
strength  of  popular  feeling.  He  waved  a  signal  to  the  guards;  the 
portal  was  opened,  and  my  children,  sustaining  my  feeble  steps, 
showered  with  garlands  and  ornaments  from  innumerable  hands,  slowly 
led  me  from  the  arena. 

KAWEAH'S  RUN 
By  Clarence  King 

As  I  walked  over  to  see  Kaweah  at  the  corral,  I  glanced  down  the 
river,  and  saw,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  two  horsemen  ride 
down  our  bank,  spur  their  horses  into  the  stream,  swim  to  the  other 
side,  and  struggle  up  a  steep  bank,  disappearing  among  bunches  of 
cottonwood  trees  near  the  river. 

They  were  Spaniards — the  same  who  had  swum  King's  River  the 
afternoon  before,  and,  as  it  flashed  on  me  finally,  the  two  whom  I 
had  studied  so  attentively  at  Visalia.  Then  I  at  once  saw  their  pur- 
pose was  to  waylay  me,  and  made  up  my  mind  to  give  them  a  lively 
run. 

I  decided  to  strike  across,  and  jumping  into  the  saddle  threw 
Kaweah  into  a  sharp  trot. 

I  glanced  at  my  girth  and  then  at  the  bright  copper  upon  my  pistol, 
and  settled  myself  firmly. 

By  this  time  I  had  regained  the  road,  which  lay  before  me  traced 
over  the  blank,  objectless  plain  in  vanishing  perspective.  Fifteen  miles 
lay  between  me  and  a  station;  Kaweah  and  pistol  were  my  only  de- 
fense, yet  at  that  moment  I  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  a  wild  moment 
of  inspiration,  almost  worth  the  danger  to  experience. 

I  glanced  over  my  shoulder  and  found  that  the  Spaniards  were 
crowding  their  horses  to  their  fullest  speed;  their  hoofs,  rattling  on 
the  dry  plain,  were  accompanied  by  inarticulate  noises,  like  the  cries 
of  bloodhounds.  Kaweah  comprehended  the  situation.  I  could  feel 
his  grand  legs  gather  under  me,  and  the  iron  muscles  contract  with 
excitement;  he  tugged  at  the  bit,  shook  his  bridle-chains,  and  flung 
himself  impatiently  into  the  air. 

It  flashed  upon  me  that  perhaps  they  had  confederates  concealed  in 


276  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

some  ditch  far  in  advance  of  me,  and  that  the  plan  was  to  crowd  me 
through  at  fullest  speed,  giving  up  the  chase  to  new  men  and  fresh 
horses ;  and  I  resolved  to  save  Kaweah  to  the  utmost,  and  only  allow 
him  a  speed  which  should  keep  me  out  of  gunshot.  So  I  held  him 
firmly,  and  reserved  my  spur  for  the  last  emergency.  Still  we  fairly 
flew  over  the  plain,  and  I  said  to  myself,  as  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and 
din  of  my  pursuers  rang  in  my  ears  now  and  then,  as  the  freshening 
breeze  hurried  it  forward,  that,  if  those  brutes  got  me,  there  was 
nothing  in  blood  and  brains;  for  Kaweah  was  a  prince  beside  their 
mustangs,  and  I  ought  to  be  worth  two  villains. 

For  the  first  twenty  minutes  the  road  was  hard  and  smooth  and 
level;  after  that  gentle,  shallow  undulations  began,  and  at  last,  at 
brief  intervals,  were  sharp,  narrow  arroyos  (ditches  eight  or  nine  feet 
wide).  I  reined  Kaweah  in,  and  brought  him  up  sharply  on  their 
bottoms,  giving  him  the  bit  to  spring  up  on  the  other  side;  but  he 
quickly  taught  me  better,  and,  gathering,  took  them  easily,  without  my 
feeling  it  in  his  stride. 

The  hot  sun  had  arisen.  I  saw  with  anxiety  that  the  tremendous 
speed  began  to  tell  painfully  on  Kaweah.  Foam  tinged  with  blood 
fell  from  his  mouth,  and  sweat  rolled  in  streams  from  his  whole  body, 
and  now  and  then  he  drew  a  deep-heaving  breath.  I  leaned  down 
and  felt  of  the  cinch  to  see  if  it  had  slipped  forward,  but,  as  I  had 
saddled  him  with  great  care,  it  kept  its  true  place,  so  I  had  only  to 
fear  the  greasers  behind,  or  a  new  relay  ahead.  I  was  conscious  of 
plenty  of  reserved  speed  in  Kaweah,  whose  powerful  run  was  already 
distancing  their  fatigued  mustangs. 

As  we  bounded  down  a  roll  of  the  plain,  a  cloud  of  dust  sprang 
from  a  ravine  directly  in  front  of  me,  and  two  black  objects  lifted 
themselves  in  the  sand.  I  drew  my  pistol,  cocked  it,  whirled  Kaweah 
to  the  left,  plunging  by*  them  and  clearing  by  about  six  feet;  a  thrill 
of  relief  came  as  I  saw  the  long,  white  horns  of  Spanish  cattle  gleam 
above  the  dust. 

Unconsciously  I  restrained  Kaweah  too  much,  and  in  a  moment  the 
Spaniards  were  crowding  down  upon  me  at  a  fearful  rate.  On  they 
came,  the  crash  of  their  spurs  and  the  clatter  of  their  horses  dis- 
tinctly heard;  and  as  I  had  so  often  compared  the  beats  of  chronom- 
eters, I  unconsciously  noted  that  while  Kaweah's,  although  painful, 
yet  came  with  regular  power,  the  mustangs'  respiration  was  quick, 
spasmodic,  and  irregular.  I  compared  the  intervals  of  the  two  mus- 
tangs, and  found  that  one  breathed  better  than  the  other,  and  then, 
upon  counting  the  best  mustang  with  Kaweah,  found  that  he  breathed 


DRAMATIC  277 

nine  breaths  to  Kaweah's  seven.  In  two  or  three  minutes  I  tried  it 
again,  finding  the  relation  ten  to  seven;  then  I  felt  the  victory,  and  I 
yelled  to  Kaweah.  The  thin  ears  shot  flat  back  upon  his  neck;  lower 
and  lower  he  lay  down  to  his  run.  I  flung  him  a  loose  rein,  and  gave 
him  a  friendly  pat  on  the  withers.  It  was  a  glorious  burst  of  speed; 
the  wind  rushed  by  and  the  plain  swept  under  us  with  dizzying  swift- 
ness. I  shouted  again,  and  the  thing  of  nervous  life  under  me  bounded 
on  wilder  and  faster,  till  I  could  feel  his  spine  thrill  as  with  shocks 
from  a  battery.  I  managed  to  look  round — a  delicate  matter  of  speed 
— and  saw,  far  behind,  the  distanced  villains,  both  dismounted,  and 
one  horse  fallen. 

In  an  instant  I  drew  Kaweah  into  a  gentle  trot,  looking  around 
every  moment,  lest  they  should  come  on  me  unawares.  In  a  half-mile 
I  reached  the  station,  and  I  was  cautiously  greeted  by  a  man  who  sat 
by  the  barn  door,  with  a  rifle  across  his  knees.  He  had  seen  me  come 
over  the  plain,  and  had  also  seen  the  Spanish  horse  fall.  Not  know- 
ing but  he  might  be  in  league  with  the  robbers,  I  gave  him  a  careful 
glance  before  dismounting  and  was  completely  reassured  by  an  ex- 
pression of  terror  which  had  possession  of  his  countenance. 

I  sprang  to  the  ground  and  threw  off  the  saddle,  and  after  a  word 
or  two  with  the  man,  who  proved  to  be  the  sole  occupant  of  this 
station,  we  fell  to  work  together  upon  Kaweah,  my  cocked  pistol  and 
his  rifle  lying  close  at  hand.  We  sponged  the  creature's  mouth,  and, 
throwing  a  sheet  over  him,  walked  him  regularly  up  and  down  for 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and  then  taking  him  upon  the  open 
plain,  where  we  could  scan  the  horizon  in  all  directions,  gave  him  a 
thorough  grooming.  I  never  saw  him  look  so  magnificently  as  when 
we  led  him  down  to  the  creek  to  drink:  his  skin  was  like  satin,  and 
the  veins  of  his  head  and  neck  stood  out  firm  and  round  like  whip- 
cords.— From  "Mountaineering  in  the  Sierra  Nevada."  Copyright 
and  used  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers,  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons, 
New  York. 

A  HERO  OF  THE  FURNACE-ROOM 

Anonymous 

The  duty  of  the  boiler-makers  on  warships  is  of  the  most  dangerous 
nature.  In  action,  between  actions,  and  out  of  action  the  repairs  that 
they  are  called  upon  at  a  moment's  notice  to  effect  are  sufficient  to 
send  a  chill  of  fear  through  the  hearts  of  most  men.     They  will  creep 


278  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

right  inside  a  boiler  or  furnace  which  had  but  a  few  moments  before 
been  full  of  boiling  liquid  or  hot  coals.  They  will  screw  up  nuts  and 
fasten  bolts  or  repair  leaking  pipes  or  joints  in  places  that  other  men 
would  consider  impossible  to  approach.  While  the  ship's  big  guns 
are  making  the  vessel  tremble,  and  the  enemy's  shells  are  bursting  in 
every  direction,  these  men,  with  positively  reckless  fearlessness,  will 
venture  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  fighting  ship,  amid  roaring  ma- 
chinery, hissing  steam,  and  flaming  fires,  to  rectify  an  accident  which, 
unrepaired,  might  send  the  ship  and  all  her  human  freight  to  the 
bottom  more  easily  and  more  surely  and  more  quickly  than  shell  or 
shot  from  the  best  guns  of  the  enemy.    These  men  are  heroes. 

The  Castine,  when  she  went  to  work  to  batter  the  walls  of  San 
Juan,  carried  on  board  three  of  these  boiler-makers,  Fish,  another, 
and  one  Huntley,  of  Norfolk,  Virginia.  The  Castine  went  into  action 
under  full  steam,  her  triple  screws  revolving  at  the  fullest  speed,  and 
her  battery  of  eight  guns  started  her  quivering  with  excitement  and 
the  fierce  delight  of  battle.  The  furnaces  were  heated  almost  to 
white  heat,  and  the  forced  draught  was  urging  the  flames  to  greater 
heat,  tiie  boiling  water  to  the  higher  production  of  steam,  the  engines 
to  increasing  revolutions.  Suddenly,  without  expectation,  without 
warning,  far  down  in  the  furnace  hole,  unheard  by  officer  or  man, 
amid  the  din  of  battle,  the  thundering  reverberations  of  exploding  gun- 
powder, there  arose  a  fierce  hissing  noise  right  inside  one  of  the  fur- 
naces; and  all  those  who  heard  it  trembled  as  no  guns  or  shot  or 
shell  had  power  to  make  them  tremble. 

A  socket  bolt  in  the  back  connection  at  the  very  farthest  interior 
extremity  of  the  furnace  had  become  loose.  A  leak  had  been  sprung; 
the  steam  was  pouring  in  upon  the  fire,  threatening  in  a  few  moments 
to  put  it  out  and  stop  the  progress  of  the  ship  if  it  did  not  have  the 
more  awful  effect  of  causing  a  terrible  explosion  and  annihilation  1 

The  faces  of  the  men  below,  in  that  moment  of  terrible  suspense, 
blanched  beneath  the  grime  that  covered  them.  None  knew  what  to 
do  save  to  wait  the  awful  coming  of  the  shock  they  knew  must  come. 

None?  Nay,  but  there  was  onel  T.he  first  to  pull  himself  together, 
the  first  to  whom  returned  the  fear-driven  senses,  was  boiler-maker 
Huntley.  His  name  does  not  appear  on  the  navy  list.  Even  his  first 
name  was  unknown  to  his  confrere,  Fish.  Only  boiler-maker  Huntley, 
of  Norfolk,  Virginia.  But  that  is  enough,  and  the  annals  of  fame 
whenever  and  wherever  the  story  of  the  United  States  and  her  navy 
is  told. 

One   instant  of   startled   horror— then,   without  hesitation,   without 


DRAMATIC  279 

trepidation,  with  stern-set  jaws  and  fierce,  devoted  determination  on 
every  line  of  face  and  form — 

"Turn  off  the  forced  draught!"  he  cried. 

"Goodness,  Huntley,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Bank  the  fire!     Quick!" 

"It's  certain  death!" 

"For  one — unless,  for  all !     Turn  off  the  draught !     Bank  the  fire !" 

The  orders  were  carried  out  feverishly. 

"Now  a  plank!" 

And  before  they  could  stop  him  this  hero  had  flung  the  plank  into 
the  furnace,  right  on  top  of  the  black  coal  with  which  it  was  banked, 
and  had  himself  climbed  and  crawled  over  the  ragged  mass,  far  back 
to  where  the  steam  was  rushing  like  some  hissing  devil  from  the 
loosened  socket. 

For  three  minutes  he  remained  inside  that  fearful  place,  and  then 
the  work  was  done — the  ship  was  saved — and  his  friends  drew  him 
out  at  the  door.  The  forced  draught  went  to  its  work  again,  and  in 
an  instant  the  furnace  was  once  more  raging. 

But  what  of  Huntley?  Scorched,  scalded,  insensible,  well-nigh  dead, 
he  lay  upon  the  iron  floor  of  the  furnace  room,  while  around  him 
stood  his  mates  dousing  him  with  water,  and  using  every  known  means 
for  his  resuscitation.  He  did  not  die,  but  when  once  more  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  was  able  to  be  carefully  lifted  into  daylight,  there  arose 
such  cheers  from  the  throats  of  those  dirty,  grimy  mates  as  never 
greeted  taking  of  city  or  sinking  of  fleet. 

The  story  is  briefly  chronicled  in  the  log  of  the  Castine,  and  Huntley 
simply  claims  that  he  "did  his  duty."  But  while  the  United  States 
remains  a  nation;  so  long  as  the  banner  bearing  the  silver  stars  on 
the  field  of  blue,  above  alternate  stripes  of  red  and  white,  remains  the 
symbol  of  purity,  bravery,  and  patriotism  to  American  hearts  the 
whole  world  over;  so  long,  when  her  heroes  are  spoken  of,  one  name 
should  never  be  omitted — that  of  Boiler-maker  Huntley,  of  Norfolk, 
Virginia. — From  The  Toledo  Blade. 

THE  DEATH  IN  THE  WHEAT 

By  Frank  Norris 

S.  Behrman  soon  discovered  his  elevator.  It  was  the  largest  struc- 
ture discernible,  and  upon  its  red  roof,  in  enormous  white  letters,  was 
his  own  name.    Thither,  between  piles  of  grain  bags,  halted  drays, 


280  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

crates  and  boxes  of  merchandise,  with  an  occasional  pyramid  of  salmon 
cases,  S.  Behrman  took  his  way.  Cabled  to  the  dock,  close  under  his 
elevator,  lay  a  great  ship  with  lofty  masts  and  great  spars.  Her  stern 
was  toward  him  as  he  approached,  and  upon  it,  in  raised  golden 
letters,  he  could  read  the  words,  "Swanhilda — Liverpool." 

He  went  aboard  by  a  very  steep  gangway  and  found  the  mate  on 
the  quarter  deck.     S.  Behrman  introduced  himself. 

"Well,"  he  added,  "how  are  you  getting  on?" 

"Very  fairly,  sir,"  returned  the  mate,  who  was  an  Englishman. 
"We'll  have  her  all  snugged  down  tight  by  this  time  day  after  to- 
morrow. It's  a  great  saving  of  time  shunting  the  stuff  in  her  like 
that,  and  three  men  can  do  the  work  of  seven." 

"I'll  have  a  look  'round,  I  believe,"  returned  S.  Behrman. 

"Right-o,"  answered  the  mate  with  a  nod. 

S.  Behrman  went  forward  to  the  hatch  that  opened  down  into 
the  vast  hold  of  the  ship.  A  great  iron  chute  connected  this  hatch 
with  the  elevator,  and  through  it  was  rushing  a  veritable  cataract  of 
wheat. 

It  came  from  some  gigantic  bin  within  the  elevator  itself,  rushing 
down  the  confines  of  the  chute  to  plunge  into  the  roomy,  gloomy  in- 
terior of  the  hold  with  an  incessant,  metallic  roar,  persistent,  steady, 
inevitable.  No  men  were  in  sight.  The  place  was  deserted.  No 
human  agency  seemed  to  be  back  of  the  movement  of  the  wheat. 
Rather,  the  grain  seemed  impelled  with  a  force  of  its  own,  a  resistless, 
huge  force,  eager,  vivid,  impatient  for  the  sea. 

S.  Behrman  stood  watching,  his  ears  deafened  with  the  roar  of  the 
hard  grains  against  the  metallic  lining  of  the  chute.  He  put  his  hand 
once  into  the  rushing  tide,  and  the  contact  rasped  the  flesh  of  his 
fingers  and  like  an  undertow  drew  his  hand  after  it  in  its  impetuous 
dash. 

Cautiously  he  peered  down  into  the  hold.  A  musty  odor  rose  to  his 
nostrils,  the  vigorous,  pungent  aroma  of  the  raw  cereal.  It  was  dark. 
He  could  see  nothing;  but  all  about  and  over  the  opening  of  the 
hatch  the  air  was  full  of  a  fine,  impalpable  dust  that  blinded  the  eyes 
and  choked  the  throat  and  nostrils. 

As  his  eyes  became  used  to  the  shadows  of  the  cavern  below  him, 
he  began  to  distinguish  the  gray  mass  of  the  wheat,  a  great  expanse, 
almost  liquid  in  its  texture,  which,  as  the  cataract  from  above  plunged 
into  it,  moved  and  shifted  in  long,  slow  eddies.  As  he  stood  there, 
this  cataract  on  a  sudden  increased  in  volume.  He  turned  about,  cast- 
ing his  eyes  upward  toward  the  elevator  to  discover  the  cause.     His 


DRAMATIC  281 

foot  caught  in  a  coil  of  rope,  and  he  fell  headforemost  into  the  hold. 

The  fall  was  a  long  one  and  he  struck  the  surface  of  the  wheat 
with  the  sodden  impact  of  a  bundle  of  damp  clothes.  For  the  moment 
he  was  stunned.  All  the  breath  was  driven  from  his  body.  He  could 
neither  move  nor  cry  out.  But,  by  degrees,  his  wits  steadied  them- 
selves and  his  breath  returned  to  him.  He  looked  about  and  above 
hrm.  The  daylight  in  the  hold  was  dimmed  and  clouded  by  the  thick, 
chaff-dust  thrown  off  by  the  pour  of  grain,  and  even  this  dimness 
dwindled  to  twilight  at  a  short  distance  from  the  opening  of  the 
hatch,  while  the  remotest  quarters  were  lost  in  impenetrable  blackness. 
He  got  upon  his  feet  only  to  find  he  sunk  ankle  deep  in  the  loose 
packed  mass  underfoot. 

"Hell,"  he  muttered,  "here's  a  fix." 

Directly  underneath  the  chute,  the  wheat,  as  it  poured  in,  raised 
itself  in  a  conical  mound,  but  from  the  sides  of  this  mound  it  shunted 
away  incessantly  in  thick  layers,  flowing  in  all  directions  with  the 
nimbleness  of  water.  Even  as  S.  Behrman  spoke,  a  wave  of  grain 
poured  around  his  legs  and  rose  rapidly  to  the  level  of  his  knees.  He 
stepped  quickly  back.  To  stay  near  the  chute  would  soon  bury  him  to 
the  waist. 

No  doubt,  there  was  some  other  exit  from  the  hold,  some  com- 
panion ladder  that  led  up  to  the  deck.  He  scuffled  and  waddled  across 
the  wheat,  groping  in  the  dark  with  outstretched  hands.  With  every 
inhalation  he  choked,  filling  his  mouth  and  nostrils  more  with  dust 
than  with  air.  At  times  he  could  not  breathe  at  all,  but  gagged  and 
gasped,  his  lips  distended.  But  search  as  he  would,  he  could  find  no 
outlet  to  the  hold,  no  stairway,  no  companion  ladder.  Again  and 
again,  staggering  along  in  the  black  darkness,  he  bruised  his  knuckles 
and  forehead  against  the  iron  sides  of  the  ship.  He  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt to  find  any  interior  means  of  escape  and  returned  laboriously 
to  the  space  under  the  open  hatchway.  Already  he  could  see  that 
the  level  of  the  wheat  was  raised. 

"God,"  he  said,  "this  isn't  going  to  do  at  all."  He  uttered  a  great 
shout.    "Hello,  on  deck  there,  somebody.    For  God's  sake." 

The  steady,  metallic  roar  of  the  pouring  wheat  drowned  out  his 
voice.  He  could  scarcely  hear  it  himself  above  the  rush  of  the 
cataract.  Beside  this,  he  found  it  impossible  to  stay  under  the  hatch. 
The  flying  grains  of  wheat,  spattering  as  they  fell,  stung  his  face 
like  wind-driven  particles  of  ice.  It  was  a  veritable  torture;  his  hands 
smarted  with  it.  Once  he  was  all  but  blinded.  Furthermore,  the  suc- 
ceeding waves  of  Wheat,  rolling   from  the  mound   under   the  chute, 


282  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

beat  him  back,  swirling  and  dashing  against  his  legs  and  knees,  mount- 
ing swiftly  higher,  carrying  him  off  his  feet. 

Once  more  he  retreated,  drawing  back  from  beneath  the  hatch.  He 
stood  still  for  a  moment  and  shouted  again.  It  was  in  vain.  His 
voice  returned  upon  him,  unable  to  penetrate  the  thunder  of  the  chute, 
and  horrified,  he  discovered  that  so  soon  as  he  stood  motionless  upon 
the  wheat,  he  sank  into  it.  Before  he  knew  it,  he  was  knee-deep  again, 
and  a  long  swirl  of  grain  sweeping  outward  from  the  ever-breaking, 
ever-reforming  pyramid  below  the  chute,  poured  around  his  thighs, 
immobilizing  him. 

A  frenzy  of  terror  suddenly  leaped  to  life  within  him.  The  horror 
of  death,  the  Fear  of  The  Trap,  shook  him  like  a  dry  reed.  Shouting, 
he  tore  himself  free  of  the  wheat  and  once  more  scrambled  and 
struggled  towards  the  hatchway.  He  stumbled  as  he  reached  it  and 
fell  directly  beneath  the  pour.  Like  a  storm  of  small  shot,  mercilessly, 
pitilessly,  the  unnumbered  multitude  of  hurtling  grains  flagellated  and 
beat  and  tore  his  flesh.  Blood  streamed  from  his  forehead  and,  thick- 
ening with  the  powder-like  chaff-dust,  blinded  his  eyes.  He  struggled 
to  his  feet  once  more.  An  avalanche  from  the  cone  of  wheat  buried 
him  to  his  thighs.  He  was  forced  back  and  back  and  back,  beating 
the  air,  falling,  rising,  howling  for  aid.  He  could  no  longer  see;  his 
eyes  crammed  with  dust,  smarted  as  if  transfixed  with  needles  when- 
ever he  opened  them.  His  mouth  was  full  of  the  dust;  his  lips  were 
dry  with  it;  thirst  tortured  him,  while  his  outcries  choked  and  gagged 
in  his  rasped  throat. 

And  all  the  while  without  stop,  incessantly,  inexorably,  the  wheat, 
as  if  moving  with  a  force  all  its  own,  shot  downward  in  a  prolonged 
roar,  persistent,  steady,  inevitable. 

He  retreated  to  a  far  corner  of  the  hold  and  sat  down  with  his 
back  against  the  iron  hull  of  the  ship  and  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
to  calm  himself.  Surely  there  must  be  some  way  of  escape ;  surely  he 
was  not  to  die  like  this,  die  in  this  dreadful  substance  that  was  neither 
solid  nor  fluid.    What  was  he  to  do?    How  make  himself  heard? 

But  even  as  he  thought  about  this,  the  cone  under  the  chute  broke 
again  and  sent  a  great  layer  of  grain  rippling  and  tumbling  toward 
him.    It  reached  him  where  he  sat  and  buried  his  hand  and  one  foot. 

He  sprang  up  trembling  and  made  for  another  corner. 

"My  God,"  he  cried,  "my  God,  I  must  think  of  something  pretty 
quick!" 

Once  more  the  level  of  the  wheat  rose  and  the  grains  began  piling 


DRAMATIC  283 

deeper  about  him.  Once  more  he  retreated.  Once  more  he  crawled, 
staggering  to  the  foot  of  the  cataract,  screaming  till  his  ears  sang  and 
his  eyeballs  strained  in  their  sockets,  and  once  more  the  relentless 
tide  drove  him  back. 

Then  began  that  terrible  dance  of  death;  the  man  dodging,  doubling, 
squirming,  hunted  from  one  corner  to  another;  the  wheat  slowly,  in- 
exorably flowing,  rising,  spreading  to  every  angle,  to  every  nook  and 
cranny.  It  reached  his  middle.  Furious  and  with  bleeding  hands  and 
broken  nails,  he  dug  his  way  out  to  fall  backward,  all  but  exhausted, 
gasping  for  breath  in  the  dust-thickening  air.  Roused  again  by  the 
slow  advance  of  the  tide,  he  leaped  up  and  stumbled  away,  blinded 
with  the  agony  in  his  eyes,  only  to  crash  against  the  metal  hull  of  the 
vessel.  He  turned  about,  the  blood  streaming  from  his  face ;  he  paused 
to  collect  his  senses,  and  with  a  rush,  another  wave  swirled  about  his 
ankles  and  knees.  Exhaustion  grew  upon  him.  To  stand  still  meant 
to  sink ;  to  lie  of  sit  meant  to  be  buried  the  quicker ;  and  all  this  in  the 
dark,  all  this  in  the  air  that  could  not  be  breathed,  all  this  while  he 
fought  an  enemy  that  could  not  be  gripped,  toiling  in  a  sea  that  could 
not  be  stayed. 

Guided  by  the  sound  of  the  falling  wheat,  S.  Behrman  crawled  on 
hands  and  knees  toward  the  hatchway.  Once  more  he  raised  his  voice 
in  a  shout  for  help.  His  bleeding  throat  and  raw,  parched  lips  re- 
fused to  utter  but  a  wheezing  moan.  Once  more  he  tried  to  look 
toward  the  one  patch  of  faint  light  above  him.  His  eyelids,  clogged 
with  chaff,  could  no  longer  open.  The  wheat  poured  about  his  waist 
as  he  raised  himself  upon  his  knees. 

Reason  fled.  Deafened  with  the  roar  of  the  grain,  blinded  and 
made  dumb  with  its  chaff,  he  threw  himself  forward  with  clutching 
fingers,  rolling  upon  his  back,  and  lay  there,  moving  feebly,  the  head 
rolling  from  side  to  side.  The  wheat,  leaping  continuously  from  the 
chute,  poured  around  him.  It  filled  the  pockets  of  the  coat,  it  crept 
up  the  sleeves  and  trouser  legs,  it  covered  the  great,  protuberant 
stomach,  it  ran  at  last  in  rivulets  into  the  distended,  gasping  mouth. 
It  covered  the  face. 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  wheat,  under  the  chute,  nothing  moved  but 
the  wheat  itself.  There  was  no  sign  of  life.  Then,  for  an  instant, 
the  surface  stirred.  A  hand,  fat,  with  short  fingers  and  swollen  veins, 
reached  up,  clutching,  then  fell  limp  and  prone.  In  another  instant  it 
was  covered.  In  the  hold  of  the  Swanhilda  there  was  no  movement 
but  the  widening  ripples  that  spread  flowing  from  the  ever-breaking, 


284  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ever-reforming  cone;  no  sound,  but  the  rushing  of  the  wheat  that 
continued  to  plunge  incessantly  from  the  iron  chute  in  a  prolonged 
roar,  persistent,  steady,  inevitable. — From  "The  Octopus."  Copyright 
and  used  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers,  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Co.,  New  York. 


DIALECT  SELECTIONS 

BOY  WANTED 
By  Madge  Elliot 

One  24th  of  December,  Mr.  Oscar  Blunt,  who  kept  a  large  hat  store 
in  the  lower  part  of  Broadway,  was  writing  at  his  desk,  which  was 
at  the  very  end  of  the  store,  when  somebody  touched  his  elbow  softly, 
and,  looking  up,  was  much  astounded  to  see  a  ragged  boy,  whose  old 
broad-brimmed  hat  almost  hid  his  face,  standing  beside  him.  He  was 
so  much  astonished,  in  fact,  that  he  dropped  his  pen  upon  his  paper, 
and  thereby  made  a  blot  instead  of  a  period. 

"Why,  my  lad,  how  came  you  here?" 

"I  slid  past  some  of  the  fellers.  Wot  a  woppin'  big  store  dis  is, 
and  wot  lots  of  fellers  it  takes  to  stan'  'roun',  an'  I  cheeked  some  an' 
I  tole  de  odders  I  had  somethin'  most  awful  partiklar  to  say  to  de 
big  boss." 

"And  what  have  you  most  awful  particular  to  say  to  me?"  said  the 
"big  boss"  in  a  kinder  voice  than  that  in  which  he  had  spoken  at  first, 
for  there  was  something  in  the  boy's  dark  gray  eyes  that  made  him 
think  of  a  darling  little  son  he  had  buried  only  a  year  ago  in  the  same 
grave  where  he  had  buried  his  wife  the  year  before. 

"Well,  I  seen  in  yer  window  a  sign  wot  reads,  'Boy  Wanted.'  An' 
I'm  a  boy;  an'  as  nobody  never  wanted  me  yet,  sez  I  to  myself,  sez 
I,  'Dusty,  ole  feller,  p'r'haps  there's  your  chance  at  last,'  sez  I,  an'  in  I 
comes." 

"Sorry,  but  you  won't  suit  at  all,  my  boy." 

"How  do  you  know  'fore  you  try  a  feller?  I  know  I  ain't  worry 
pooty,  nor  I  hain't  got  no  fashnoble  clothes,  but  I'm  smart,  I  am. 
I've  been  to  night-school  two  winters,  I  have,  an'  got  a  sixth  'ward  of 
merit,  I  did,  wunst,  an'  I  kin  read  readin'  fust  rate  wen  it's  only  two 
syllabubbles  an'  I  kin  spell  it  out  wen  it's  three  syllabubbles,  an'  I  kin 
speak  some  four  syllabubbles,  an'  I  can  read  writin'  wen  it's  print- 

285 


286  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

letters,  an'  I  kin  wissel  you  or  any  oder  man  in  des  'ere  tre-men-yu-ous 
(four  syllabubbles)  old  hat-box  outer  his  boots."  And  he  began  to 
whistle  a  lively  tune  so  loudly,  clearly  and  sweetly  that  everybody  in 
the  large  store  turned  in  amazement  toward  the  desk,  and  listened. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  you  whistle  remarkably  well,  but  we  don't  want  a 
boy  to  whistle." 

"I  kin  dance  too.  I  danced  for  Johnny  Sniffs  ben'fit  when  he  fell 
inter  wun  of  dem  cole-holes  in  de  sidewalk,  and  broke  his  leg  off 
short,  I  did,  'midst  thunders  of  applause."  And  cutting  a  double 
shuffle  he  went  off  into  a  rollicking  break-down,  his  big  shoes  wobbling 
about,  and  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat  flopping  up  and  down  at  every 
step. 

"Stop,  stop!  I  tell  you!  I  don't  want  a  boy  to  dance.  You  won't 
do,  my  boy;  you  won't  do,  as  I've  told  you  before.  Here's  a  quarter 
for  you,  and  now  go  away." 

"I  don't  want  de  quarter;  nor  I  don't  want  to  go  'way,"  persisted 
the  boy.  "I  didn't  come  'way  from  Fishhead  Alley  to  dis  swell  street 
to  go  'way  so  soon.  I  want  a  sit-u-wa-tion  (four  syllabubbles),  I  do. 
An'  de  fust  thing  I  seen,  wen  I  comes  round  de  corner,  was  dat  sign, 
'Boy  Wanted.'  'An'  dat's  good  luck,'  sez  I.  'Go  in,  Dusty  ole  feller,' 
sez  I.  An'  I  ain't  tole  you  haff  what  I  kin  do.  Jess  yez  hole  on  a 
minnit.  I  kin  see  a  cop  furder  nor  any  our  gang;  an'  wen  one  comes 
in  de  front  door  arter  you,  I  kin  give  you  de  wink,  quicker'n  lightenin', 
an'  out  de  back  door  you  pops.  An'  I  kin  speak  pieces,  I  kin — 'A 
hoss !  A  hoss !  my  kingdom  f  er  a  hoss !  Dere's  sixty  Richmons  in 
de  field  to-day,  an'  I've  killed  every  wun  of  dem.    A  hoss — ' " 

"Silence!"  commanded  Mr.  Blunt;  and  then  in  spite  of  himself  he 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  and  laughed  until  he  shook  again,  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  him  to  shake — two  hundred  pounds  at  the  very 
least.  "Tell  me  something  about  yourself,  my  boy,  but  mind,  no 
more  performances  of  any  kind.  What  is  your  name,  and  where  do 
you  live,  to  begin  with?" 

"Dusty's  my  name.  I  don't  know  no  odder.  One  feller,  he's  from 
the  country,  he  is — calls  me  'Dusty  Miller' ;  he  sez  'cause  dey's  a  flower 
wot  dey  calls  'Dusty  Miller'  dare.  I  believe  he's  foolin'„  But  if  I'm 
de  boy  wot's  wanted,  I  must  get  a  nobbier  name  dan  dat.  Wot's  your 
name,  boss?" 

"Mr.  Oscar  Blunt." 

"Well,  you  might  call  me  dat,  too,  without  de  mister.  It  soun's 
werry  nice — 'Hoss  car  Blunt,'  or  you  might  keep  de  Hoss  car,  an  I'd 
be  de  El-e-wa-ted   (four  syllabubbles)   Road  Blunt.     Any  way  you've 


DIALECT  287 

mind  to.  You  pay  your  money,  and  takes  your  choice.  An'  I  lives 
roun'  anywhere  sence  Aunt  Kate  died." 

"Aunt  Kate?  And  was  Aunt  Kate  your  only  relation?  Have  you 
no  father  and  mother?"  asked  Mr.  Blunt. 

"Nope;  never  had  none,  'cept  Aunt  Kate.  An'  I  ain't  no  frien's, 
'cept  Straw  Hat.  He  keeps  a  paper  stan',  he  does;  an'  onst  he  giv  a 
party,  he  did,  in  a  charcoal-box.  I  wos  dere,  an'  it  wuz  bully,  you  bet. 
An'  I've  got  a  little  brudder." 

"A  little  brother?" 

"Yep,  sir.  He  wuz  my  cousin  wunst,  'fore  dey  took  Aunt  Kate 
away;  but  he's  my  brudder  now,  an'  I  got  to  take  care  of  him.  He 
jess  gobbles  bread  and  milk,  an'  dat's  w'y  I'm  lookin'  for  a  sit-i-wa-tion 
— 'nother  four  syllabubbles.  Crackey!  I'm  as  full  of  big  words  as  a 
diction'ry,  I  am.  An'  Straw  Hat  he  sez  to  me,  sez  he,  'If  you  want 
me  to  say  you're  honest  an'  sober  an'  'dustyous,  I'll  say  it,'  says  he. 
He's  a  bully  good  feller,  he  is,  an'  I  ain't  givin'  taffy,  neider.  He's 
took  care  of  me  an'  my  little  brudder  sence  Aunt  Kate  died — dat's 
lass  week — but  he  can't  do  it  forev'r'n'ever." 

"And  where  is  this  little  brother  now?" 

"Sittin'  on  your  stoop,  waitin'  till  I  come  out." 

"Sitting  on  my  stoop?  Why  he  must  be  half  frozen,  poor  little 
fellow.     Go  and  bring  him  in  directly." 

The  boy  flew,1  and  in  a  moment  returned,  leading  by  the  hand  a  wee 
child,  who  could  just  walk,  and  whose  very  small  nose  was  blue  with 
cold,  and  who  was  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl,  the  ends  of  which  dragged 
behind  him. 

"He's  a  boy  too,  an'  he's  real  pooty,  an'  if  he's  the  kind  of  boy  yer 
want,  you  may  have  him ;  but  you  must  be  awful  good  to  him,  an'  let 
me  come  and  see  him.     Say,  boss,  to-morrer's  Chrismus  day!" 

"Well,  and  what  then?" 

"Wen  folks  all  gits  presents,  an'  fellers  wot's  got  stockin's  hangs 
'em  up,  an'  spose,  boss — jess  fer  fun — you  let  me  an'  my  little  brudder 
be  your  Chrismus  present?" 

"Done!"  said  Mr.  Blunt,  conquered  at  last  by  the  boy's  patient  and 
persistent  coaxing.  "I'll  make  believe  I  found  one  in  each  stocking. 
But  mind,  Dusty,  you  must  be  the  best  of  boys,  and  stop  using  slang, 
or  I  won't  keep  you." 

"You  kin  bet  you  bottom  dollar  I'll  do  everything  you  want  me  to. 
Horay!  ain't  dis  a  bully  racket?  I'm  de  boy  wot's  wanted  in  dis 
es-tab-lish-ment  (four  syllabubbles)  an'  I  mean  to  be  in-wal-u-a-ble — 
five  syllabubbles,  by  gracious!     Mind  my  little  brudder  a  minnit  till 


288  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  run  an'  tell  Straw  Hat."  And  before  Mr.  Blunt  could  say  a  word, 
the  crown  of  the  hat  was  on  his  head,  and  he  was  out  of  the  store 
and  away. 

And  when  he  returned  with  Straw  Hat  the  baby  was  sitting  in  the 
lap  of  the  good  natured  colored  woman  who  kept  the  store  clean,  as 
happy  as  any  baby  could  be  who  had  just  eaten  four  sugar  cakes  and 
a  stick  of  candy. 

And  Dusty  E.  Road  proved  himself  to  be,  as  he  himself  said  he 
would  be,  the  very  boy  wanted  in  that  establishment. 


THE  HIEROGLYPHICS  OF  LOVE 
By  Amanda  Mathews 

The  mother  of  Teodota  sat  in  the  doorway  with  a  bowl  of  meat 
in  her  lap.  Her  greasy  black  dress  wrinkled  latitudinally  about  her 
shapeless  figure.  Her  countenance  was  smooth,  blank,  and  oily.  As 
she  cut  the  meat  into  bits  for  the  tamales,  an  impotent  dribble  of 
monologue  flowed  from  her  flabby,  pendulous  lips.  While  awake, 
talking  was  a  function  as  natural  and  continuous  as  respiration  or 
digestion,  and  was  interrupted  only  when  her  present  husband  exerted 
.  himself  to  beat  or  kick  her  into  a  brief  interval  of  sniffling  repression. 
On  this  particular  afternoon  Sefior  Garcia  was  not  interested  in  dam- 
ming the  sluggish  but  endless  current  of  his  wife's  conversation,  for 
he  lay  in  drunken  sleep  on  a  filthy  blanket  in  a  corner  of  the  rough 
board  pen,  a  Mexican  Caliban,  swart,  lowbrowed,  bestial. 

Teodota  knelt  behind  the  metate  grinding  corn  to  be  mixed  with 
chile  in  the  pungent  tamales.  She  had  dragged  the  clumsy  stone  im- 
plement to  a  position  where  she  could  see  that  her  stepfather  still 
slept,  notwithstanding  his  frightful  inarticulate  gulps  and  growls.  A 
thin,  flat-chested  slip  of  a  girl  was  Teodota,  with  great,  piteous  brown 
eyes,  high  cheek  bones,  small,  pointed  chin,  and  a  complexion  of  tan 
satin.  She  was  not  beautiful;  rather  was  she  an  intaglio  of  beauty 
with  hollows  where  there  should  have  been  roundness.  Her  untidy 
black  braids  had  been  slept  on  many  times  since  they  had  known  a 
comb;  the  scant,  tattered  calico  gown  fell  away  from  the  upturned 
leathery  solec  of  her  bare  foot.  She  guided  the  heavy  stone  roller 
with  languid,  perfunctory  movements,  while  some  clockwork  in  her 
brain  prompted  the  periodical  "Si,  madre,"  that  fully  satisfied  her 
mother's  conversational  requirements. 


DIALECT  289 

The  real  Teodota  was  back  in  Old  Mexico.  Certainly  she  was  not 
driven  thither  by  any  lack  of  familiar  environment  in  the  Mexican 
quarter  of  Los  Angeles.  Nor  would  it  seem  necessary  for  Teodota 
to  keep  tryst  in  Mexico  with  a  lover  who  had  not  preceded  her  to  the 
United  States,  but  they  had  not  found  each  other  yet  and  she  could 
meet  her  Pablo  only  at  the  plaza  fountain  in  Texcoco. 

Suddenly  into  the  dream,  but  not  of  it,  a  white  folded  paper  flut- 
tered through  the  open  window  and  lay  on  the  floor  beside  the  metate. 
The  girl  examined  it  curiously. 

"What  is  it,  daughter?"  inquired  the  elder  woman. 

"I  do  not  know,  mother.  It  looks  like  drawing;  I  am  sure  it  isn't 
writing." 

"I  can  use  it  to  light  my  cigarette." 

"No,  mamacita,  I  want  it." 

"For  what?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  girl  hid  the  paper  where  billows  of  a  not  overclean  chemise 
escaped  at  long  gaps  between  buttons,  and  returned  to  her  labor,  but 
the  apparently  trifling  incident  had  taken  a  certain  hold  on  her  listless, 
stunted  intelligence.  Recklessly,  she  pushed  a  handful  of  corn  off  the 
end  of  the  metate  and  edged  about  on  her  knees  as  if  to  pick  it  up,  in 
order  to  study  the  document  with  her  back  to  her  mother.  The  un- 
lettered brain,  not  accustomed  to  flat  symbols  for  the  appearance  of 
things,  was  slow  to  find  any  significance  in  the  lines.  Very  gradually 
did  she  achieve  recognition  of  a  railway  train  and  the  human  figures, 
male  and  female. 

As  her  stepfather  pulled  himself  into  a  sitting  posture  she  thrust  the 
paper  back  into  her  bosom,  trembling  lest  he  had  seen  it,  and  still 
more  lest  he  beat  her  for  the  unground  corn. 

"Caramba!"  he  growled.    "May  the  roof  fall  upon  the  Labor  Union." 

Mother  and  daughter  exchanged  glances  of  relief  that,  so  far,  the 
object  of  his  wrath  was  remote  and  intangible. 

"They  told  me  in  Mexico,"  he  continued,  "of  a  fine  thing  here  in 
America  called  the  Labor  Union  that  pays  a  man  when  he  does  not 
work,  that  throws  stones  at  him  if  he  is  such  a  fool  as  to  desire 
work,  and  calls  him — calls  him — a  pest  overtake  their  speech  that  is 
hard  as  rocks  in  the  mouth — " 

"Scabe,  padre,"  supplied  Teodota,  timidly. 

"I  come  here  with  my  innocent  family.     I  seek  out  this  Labor  Union 
and  say,  'Here  am  I,  Juan  Garcia,  who  is  no — no—'" 
"Scabe,  padre,"  ventured  the  girl  again. 


290  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"But  hates  work  like  the  very  devil.  Do  they  embrace  me?  Do 
they  put  money  in  my  hand?    Ah-h-h!" 

His  memory  of  the  rest  of  that  painful  interview,  when  a  muscular 
labor  leader  chose  to  consider  that  he  was  being  trifled  with,  vented 
itself  in  a  shrill  howl  of  rage. 

Teodota  caught  up  a  brown  earthen  pitcher,  and  slipping  out  as 
though  to  bring  water  from  the  hydrant,  hid  herself  behind  a  scrubby 
red  geranium  in  the  angle  between  the  last  tenement  and  the  high 
board  fence.  At  first  she  crouched  in  wretched  fear  of  being  dragged 
forth  to  receive  a  beating,  or  witness  one  bestowed  upon  her  mother, 
but  the  minutes  slipped  by  without  pursuit. 

It  was  not  because  she  needed  to  exercise  her  reposeful  wits  during 
this  period  of  hiding  that  she  fell  to  studying  the  paper  again,  but 
rather  on  account  of  a  pleasant  stir  in  some  rudimentary  faculty  that 
under  happier  circumstances  might  have  been  imagination.  Man,  boy, 
woman,  train,  mules,  she  identified  with  growing  ease  and  satisfac- 
tion. For  her,  it  was  a  notable  mental  achievement  when  she  per- 
ceived relations  among  the  members  of  the  groups  of  objects. 

That  man  was  kissing  the  hand  of  the  maiden  with  a  water-jar  on 
her  shoulder.  Even  so  had  Pablo  kissed  her  hand  under  the  portales 
that  last  morning,  and  when  she  inquired  saucily  if  she  were  his  grand- 
mother, he  snatched  her  to  him  and  kissed  both  cheeks  and  called  her 
queridita.  In  the  next  square  the  same  girl  was  being  flogged.  Even 
so  had  she  been  used  by  her  stepfather,  who  wished  her  to  have  no 
lover,  but  to  continue  making  tamales  for  his  support.  Her  beloved 
had  left  for  the  United  States  in  just  such  a  train. 

This  was  a  communication  from  Pablo!  That  supreme  illumination 
in  her  dim  intellect  was  a  blessed  miracle  of  love.  She  kissed  the 
picture-letter  and  rocked  back  and  forth,  hugging  it,  while  her  heart 
nearly  leaped  out  of  her  joy.  Then  she  fell  to  studying  it  anew.  The 
square  showing  forth  a  man  driving  a  team  of  mules  hitched  to  a 
scraper  was  beyond  her  comprehension,  as  she  was  unfamiliar  with 
grading  camps. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  the  boy  with  the  shirt-waist  and  simu- 
lated fur  cap  was  receiving  a  letter,  running  with  it,  and  in  the  last 
square,  delivering  it  to  the  maiden.  Dear  Pablo  evidently  believed 
that  this  boy  was  the  messenger  between  them,  whereas  it  must  have 
been  the  angels  or  the  saints,  for  had  she  not  seen  the  boy  looking  as 
innocent  and  indifferent  as  you  please? 

When  Teodota  returned  to  the  squalid  room  her  stepfather  had  a 
more  immediate  grievance. 


DIALECT  291 

"You  impudent,  lazy  hussy!  You  sin  verguenza!  I'll  teach  you  to 
leave  your  work  and  gad  about  the  court!" 

"If  you  touch  me  again,"  blazed  the  girl,  "you'd  better  keep  awake. 
I'll  kill  you  if  I  ever  catch  you  asleep !" 

A  rabbit  at  bay  is  at  least  a  surprise,  and  the  brute's  jaw  dropped, 
the  upraised  arm  fell  back,  and  cursing  and  blustering,  he  strolled 
forth  into  the  court.  With  a  champion  hovering  near,  there  had  sud- 
denly come  to  the  girl  the  power  to  hate  bravely.  Heretofore  she  had 
feared  her  stepfather  as  the  savage  who  dares  not  hate  the  evil  powers 
moving  in  the  darkness  lest  they  perceive  his  hatred  and  smite  him 
afresh. 

"Daughter!  daughter!"  wailed  the  frightened  mother,  "that  was  not 
a  respectful  manner  to  address  a  parent.  When  I  was  a  girl  it  was 
the  custom — " 

"Si,  madre,"  responded  Teodota,  patiently,  as  she  indited  her  answer 
to  her  lover  with  a  burnt  match  on  a  scrap  of  wrapping  paper. 
Roughly,  but  eloquently,  she  sketched  two  little  imploring  hands,  and 
flung  the  epistle  from  the  window  with  childlike  confidence  that  what- 
ever powers  had  brought  Pablo's  letter  would  convey  her  reply. 

It  was  a  transformed  Teodota  that  stood  just  out  of  the  heavy 
wooden  gates  of  the  court  the  next  morning,  apparently  loitering  in 
idle  contemplation  of  the  street,  where  Latin  infants  disported  them- 
selves on  the  sidewalks,  and  soft  Spanish  speech  was  heard  in  every 
doorway,  but  in  reality  her  whole  body  was  charged  with  excitement 
and  impatience.  Personal  neatness  in  a  board  pen  devoted  chiefly  to 
the  manufacture  of  tamales  could  not  be  expected  to  attain  any  high 
standard,  but  her  appearance  this  morning  bore  eloquent  testimony  to 
the  civilizing  power  of  love.  Her  abundant  black  hair,  moist  and 
glossy,  rippled  on  her  shoulders,  with  a  red  geranium  glowing  in  its 
shadows.  The  billows  of  chemise  between  the  distant  buttons  were 
snowy  white,  the  worst  rents  in  the  tattered  pink  gown  had  been 
roughly  mended,  and  even  the  blue  rebozo  lying  across  her  shoulders 
had  taken  on  a  faded  purity. 

As  though  to  set  the  seal  of  heavenly  approval  on  such  cleanliness, 
another  communication  from  Pablo  was  found  pinned  to  the  rebozo 
when  she  drew  it  in  from  the  window  where  it  had  swung  to  dry. 
That  the  small  boy  was  not  in  sight  was  ample  proof  that  it  had  come 
by  supernatural  agency. 

This  last  letter  said  more  eloquently  than  mere  words  could  have 
done:  "I  await  thee  at  the  tunnel."  Yet  with  seeming  nonchalance, 
Teodota  watched  the  squat,  receding  figure  of  her  stepfather  abroad 


292  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

on  the  only  tasks  compatible  with  his  dignity  and  tastes — the  delivery 
of  the  tamales  to  a  dealer  down  the  street,  and  the  collection  of  the 
revenue  therefrom.  The  very  instant,  however,  that  he  disappeared 
into  a  doorway,  she  was  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  wrapping  her 
rebozo  about  her  head  as  she  went,  and  giving  the  end  a  final  fling 
over  her  shoulder. 

At  the  Mexican  end  of  the  tunnel,  just  beyond  the  Chinese  laundry, 
but  before  one  enters  the  cavernous  chill  and  shadow,  stands  an  un- 
roofed adobe  *  hovel  close  to  the  highway.  Teodota,  hurrying  by  this 
ruin,  thrilled  from  head  to  foot  to  hear  her  name. 

"Pablo!"  she  gasped.  Her  soul  rode  the  wave  of  joy  to  its  crest; 
then  dropped  back  into  the  trough  of  despair.  "I  took  you  for  gente 
decente!    How  fine  you  are!     How  elegant!    A  grand  senor!" 

The  tall,  handsome  Aztec  looked  down  complacently  at  his  black  suit 
and  the  ends  of  his  red  tie,  not  displeased  at  the  impression  he  made. 

"Didst  think,  queridita,"  he  laughed,  kissing  her  cheeks  as  he  had 
done  under  the  portales,  "that  here  in  America  I  would  be  wearing 
white  cotton  trousers  and  leather  sandals?  No,  indeed!  This  is  an- 
other day." 

"But  I,  Senor—" 

"Call  me  not  'Senor/  but  Pablo  and  thy  sweetheart,"  he  cried,  swing- 
ing her  to  the  top  of  a  crumbling  wall,  where  she  was  obliged  to 
cling  to  him  most  deliciously. 

"You  will  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"Nay,  little  one,  we  will  soon  mend  thy  distress.  I  know  of  a  store 
not  far  from  here  with  a  sign — I  cannot  speak  the  strange  word,  but 
it  looks  thus."  With  a  pencil  he  scrawled  on  a  bit  of  plaster  still 
clinging  to  the  adobe :     RUMMAGE  SALE. 

"This  is  a  strange  country,  Teodota.  At  home  it  is  the  poor  who 
sell  their  clothes — mostly  in  the  pawn-shops,  though  my  uncle  had  six 
serapes  bought  off  his  back  by  gringo  tourists.  Here,  it  is  the  aris- 
tocrats who  sell  their  garments  to  the  poor,  and  very  cheap,  though, 
of  course,  one  offers  the  half.  Poor  rich,  to  lose  their  pretty  clothes, 
but  I  suppose  the  rents  are  high  where  they  live,  and  they  must  have 
plenty  to  eat,  being  so  accustomed.  I  can  buy  thee  silk  and  velvet 
and  thou  shalt  be  a  grand  senora,  as  I  am  a  grand  senor." 

"Dear  Pablo,  you  are  as  good  as  the  blessed  saints  who  brought  me 
your  letters." 

"It  was  a  little  boy,  Teodota,  whose  father  works  in  the  same  camp." 

"He  seemed  not  to  be  concerned  in  the  matter,  and  I  was  sure  it 

l  Adobe,  pronounced  A-do'by,  a  thick  clay  of  which  sun-dried  bricks  are  made. 


DIALECT  293 

was  the  saints.     I  must  go  back  now  or  my  stepfather  will  beat  me." 

"Back,  little  one?  Never!  Come  with  me  instead.  The  beast  shall 
never  beat  thee  again." 

"But  the  tamales?" 

"I  like  tamales.    You  shall  make  them  for  me." 

"What  would  my  poor  mother  say?" 

"We  can  let  her  know  later,  and  she  will  be  glad  to  have  thee  free 
from  that  cochino.  Listen,  lindita:  Beyond  this  tunnel  is  a  big  red 
house  that  they  say  is  the  National  Palace  of  Los  Angeles,  and  here 
one  must  get  a  permit  to  marry,  though  the  priest  really  does  the  work. 
Let  us  seek  the  red  house." 

"Oh,  Pablo!    Now?" 

"Yes,  querida." 

Hand  in  hand,  the  lovers  left  the  adobe,  and  the  somber  echoing 
tunnel,  with  the  electric  wires  seen  like  a  spider's  web  across  its  far- 
ther end,  was  to  them  an  underground  passage  to  Paradise. — Copyright, 
and  used  by  kind  consent  of  the  author. 

Note. — Spanish  words  are  pronounced  according  to  the  continental  pronuncia. 
tion,  and  each  vowel  is  given  a  syllable.  "Si  Ma-dre,"  pronounced  See  Ma'dray, 
yes,  mother.  "Ma-ma-ci-ta,"  pronounced  Ma-ma-cee-tah,  little  mother.  "Sin 
Ver-gu-en-za,"  pronounced  Seen  Vehr-goo-ain'tha,  shameless.  "Que-ri-di-ta," 
pronounced  Kay-ree-dee'tah,  little  love.  "Por-ta-les,"  pronounced  Por-tah'lays, 
covered  sidewalks.  "Gente  decente,"  pronounced  Hen'tay  day-then'tay,  the  aris- 
tocracy. "Coch-i-no,"  pronounced  Co-chee'no,  pig.  "Lin-di-ta,"  pronounced 
Leen-dee'te,  pretty.     "Que-ri-da,"  pronounced  Kay-ree'da,  beloved. 


THE  INTERVENTION  OF  PETER 
By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

No  one  knows  just  what  statement  it  was  of  Harrison  Randolph's 
that  Bob  Lee  doubted.  The  annals  of  these  two  Virginia  families  have 
not  told  us  that.    But  these  are  the  facts : 

It  was  at  the  home  of  the  Fairfaxes  that  a  few  of  the  sons  of  the 
old  Dominion  were  giving  a  dinner,  and  a  brave  dinner  it  was.  The 
courses  had  come  and  gone,  and  over  their  cigars  they  had  waxed 
more  than  merry.  In  those  days  men  drank  deep,  and  these  men  were 
young,  full  of  the  warm  blood  of  the  South  and  the  joy  of  living. 
What  wonder  then  that  the  liquor  that  had  been  mellowing  in  the 
Fairfax  cellars  since  the  boyhood  of  their  revolutionary  ancestor  should 
have  its  effect  upon  them? 


294  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  is  true  that  it  was  only  a  slight  thing  which  Bob  Lee  affected  to 
disbelieve,  and  that  his  tone  was  jocosely  bantering  rather  than  imper- 
tinent. But  sometimes  Virginia  heads  are  not  less  hot  than  Virginia 
hearts.  The  two  young  men  belonged  to  families  that  had  intermar- 
ried. They  rode  together,  hunted  together  and  were  friends  as  far  as 
two  men  could  be  who  had  read  the  message  of  love  in  the  dark  eyes 
of  the  same  woman.  So  perhaps  there  was  some  thought  of  the  long- 
contested  hand  of  Miss  Sallie  Ford  in  Harrison  Randolph's  mind  when 
he  chose  to  believe  that  his  honor  had  been  assailed. 

His  dignity  was  admirable.  There  was  no  scene  to  speak  of.  It 
was  all  very  genteel. 

"Mr.  Lee,"  he  said,  "had  chosen  to  doubt  his  word,  which  to  a  gen- 
tleman was  a  final  insult.  But  he  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Lee  would  not 
refuse  to  accord  him  a  gentleman's  satisfaction."  And  the  other's  face 
had  waxed  warm  and  red  and  his  voice  cold  as  he  replied:  "I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  give  you  the  satisfaction  you  demand." 

Here  friends  interposed  and  attempted  to  pacify  the  two.  But  with- 
out avail. 

Each  of  the  young  men  nodded  to  a  friend  and  rose  to  depart.  The 
joyous  dinner-party  bade  fair  to  end  with  much  more  serious  business. 

"You  shall  hear  from  me  very  shortly,"  said  Randolph,  as  he  strode 
to  the  door. 

"I  shall  await  your  pleasure  with  impatience,  sir,  and  give  you  such  a 
reply  as  even  you  cannot  disdain." 

Peter,  the  personal  attendant  of  Harrison  Randolph,  stood  at  the 
door  as  his  master  passed  out,  and  went  on  before  him  to  hold  his 
stirrup.  The  young  master  and  his  friend  and  cousin,  Dale,  started  off 
briskly  and  in  silence,  while  Pete,  with  wide  eyes  and  disturbed  face, 
followed  on  behind.  Just  as  they  were  turning  into  the  avenue  of  elms 
that  led  to  their  own  house,  Randolph  wheeled  his  horse  and  came 
riding  back  to  his  servant. 

"Pete,"  said  he  sternly,  "what  do  you  know?" 

"Nuffin\  Mas'  Ha'ison,  nuffin'  't  all.     I  do'  know  nuffin'." 

"I  don't  believe  you."  The  young  master's  eyes  were  shining  through 
the  dusk.     "You're  always  slipping  around  spying  on  me." 

"Now,  dah  you  goes,  Mas'  Randolph.  I  ain't  done  a  thing,  and  you 
got  to  'mence  pickin'  on  me — " 

"I  just  want  you  to  remember  that  my  business  is  mine." 

"Well,  I  knows  dat." 

"And  if  you  do  know  anything,  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  begin  for- 


DIALECT  295 

getting  it  right  now.  Take  Bess  around  and  see  her  attended  to. 
Leave  Dale's  horse  here,  and — I  won't  want  you  any  more  to-night." 

Pete  turned  away  with  an  injured  expression  on  his  dark  face. 
"Bess,"  he  said  to  the  spirited  black  mare,  as  he  led  her  toward  the 
stables,  "you  jes'  better  t'ank  yo'  Makah  dat  you  ain't  no  human  bein', 
'ca'se  human  bein's  is  cur'ous  articles.  Now  you's  a  horse,  ain't  you? 
And  dey  say  you  ain't  got  no  soul,  but  you  got  sense,  Bess,  you  got 
sense.  You's  a  high  steppah,  too,  but  you  don'  go  to  work  an'  try  to 
brek  yo'  naik  de  fus'  chanst  you  git.  Bess,  I  'spect  you  'ca'se  you  got 
jedgment,  an'  you  don'  have  to  have  a  black  man  runnin'  aftah  you  all 
de  time  plannin'  his  head  off  jes'  to  keep  you  out  o'  trouble.  Some 
folks  dat's  human  bein's  does.  Yet  an'  still,  Bess,  you  ain't  nuffin'  but 
a  dumb  beas',  so  dey  says.  Now,  what  I  gwine  to  do?  Co'se  dey 
wants  to  fight.  But  whah  an'  when  an'  how  I  gwine  to  stop  hit? 
Doan  want  me  to  wait  on  him  to-night,  huh !  No,  dey  want  to  mek 
dey  plans  an'  do'  want  me  'roun'  to  hyeah,  dat's  what's  de  mattah. 
Well,  I  lay  I'll  hyeah  somep'n'  anyhow." 

Peter  hurried  through  his  work  and  took  himself  up  to  the  big 
house  and  straight  to  his  master's  room.  He  heard  voices  within,  but 
though  he  took  many  liberties  with  his  owner,  eavesdropping  was  not 
one  of  them.  It  proved  too  dangerous.  So,  though  he  lingered  on 
the  mat,  it  was  not  for  long,  and  he  unceremoniously  pushed  the  door 
open  and  walked  in.  With  a  great  show  of  haste,  he  made  for  his 
master's  wardrobe  and  began  busily  searching  among  the  articles 
therein.  Harrison  Randolph  and  his  cousin  were  in  the  room,  and 
their  conversation,  which  had  been  animated,  suddenly  ceased  when 
Peter  entered. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  you  any  more  to-night." 

"I's  a-lookin'  fu'  dem  striped  pants  o'  yo'n.  I  want  to  tek  'm  out 
an'  bresh  'em ;  dey's  pintly  a  livin'  sight." 

"You  get  out  o'  here." 

"But,  Mas'  Ha'ison,  now — now — look-a-hyeah — " 

"Get  out,  I  tell  you." 

Pete  shuffled  from  the  room,  mumbling  as  he  went:  "Dah  now,  dah 
now!  driv'  out  lak'  a  dog!  How's  I  gwine  to  fin'  out  anyt'ing  dis  way? 
It  do  'pear  lak  Mas'  Ha'ison  do  try  to  give  me  all  de  trouble  he  know 
how.  Now  he  plannin'  and  prijickin'  wif  dat  cousin  Dale  an'  one  jes' 
ez  scattah-brained  ez  de  othah.  Well,  I  'low  I  got  to  beat  dis  time 
somehow  er  ruther." 

He  was  still  lingering  hopeless  and  worried  about  the  house  when 
he  saw  young  Dale  Randolph  come  out,  mount  his  horse  and  ride  away. 


296  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

After  a  while  his  young  master  also  came  out  and  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  soft  evening  air.  The  rest  of  the  family  were  seated  about  on 
the  broad  piazza. 

"I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  Harrison  to-night,"  said  the 
young  man's  father,  "he  seems  so  preoccupied." 

"Thinking  of  Sallie  Ford,  I  reckon,"  some  one  replied;  and  the  re- 
mark passed  with  a  laugh.  Pete  was  near  enough  to  catch  this,  but  he 
did  not  stop  to  set  them  right  in  their  conjectures.  He  slipped  into 
the  house. 

It  was  less  than  two  hours  after  this  when  Dale  Randolph  returned 
and  went  immediately  to  his  cousin's  room,  where  Harrison  followed 
him. 

"Well?"  said  the  latter,  as  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  them. 

"It's  all  arranged,  and  he's  anxious  to  hurry  it  through  for  fear 
some  one  may  interfere.  Pistols,  and  to-morrow  morning  at  day- 
break." 

"And  the  place?" 

"The  little  stretch  of  woods  that  borders  Ford's  Creek.  I  say,  Har- 
rison, it  isn't  too  late  to  stop  this  thing  yet.  It's  a  shame  for  you  two 
fellows  to  fight.    You're  both  too  decent  to  be  killed  yet." 

"He  insulted  me." 

"Without  intention,  every  one  believes." 

"Then  let  him  apologize." 

"As  well  ask  the  devil  to  take  Communion." 

"We'll  fight  then." 

"All  right.  If  you  must  fight  you  must.  But  you'd  better  go  to  bed, 
for  you'll  need  a  strong  arm  and  a  steady  hand  to-morrow." 

"I'm  going  to  write  a  couple  of  letters  first,"  he  said;  "then  I  shall 
lie  down  for  an  hour  or  so.  And,  by  the  way,  Dale,  if  I — if  it  hap- 
pens to  be  me  to-morrow,  you  take  Pete;  he's  a  good  fellow." 

The  cousins  clasped  hands  in  silence  and  passed  out.  As  the  door 
closed  behind  them  a  dusky  form  rolled  out  from  under  the  bed  and 
the  disreputable,  eavesdropping,  backsliding  Peter  stood  up  and  rubbed 
a  sleeve  across  his  eyes. 

"It  ain't  me  dat's  gwine  to  be  give  to  nobody  else.  I  hates  to  do  it, 
but  dey  ain't  no  othah  way.  Mas'  Ha'ison  cain't  be  spaihed."  He 
glided  out  mysteriously,  some  plan  of  salvation  working  in  his  black 
head. 

Just  before  daybreak  next  morning  three  stealthy  figures  crept  out 
and  made  their  way  toward  Ford's   Creek.     One  skulked  behind  the 


DIALECT  297 

other  two,  dogging  their  steps  and  taking  advantage  of  the  darkness  to 
keep  very  near  to  them.  At  the  grim  trysting-place  they  halted  and 
were  soon  joined  by  other  stealthy  figures,  and  together  they  sat  down 
to  wait  for  the  daylight.  The  seconds  conferred  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  ground  was  paced  off,  and  a  few,  low-pitched  orders  prepared  the 
young  men  for  business. 

"I  will  count  three,  gentlemen,"  said  Lieutenant  Ciistis.  "At  three, 
you  are  to  fire." 

At  last  daylight  came,  gray  and  timid  at  first,  and  then  red  and  bold 
as  the  sun  came  clearly  up.  The  pistols  were  examined  and  the  men 
placed  face  to  face. 

"Are  you  ready,  gentlemen?" 

But  evidently  Harrison  Randolph  was  not.  He  was  paying  no  at- 
tention to  the  seconds.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  an  object  behind  his 
opponent's  back.  His  attitude  relaxed  and  his  mouth  began  to  twitch. 
Then  he  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Pete,"  he  roared,  "drop  that  and  come  out  from  there!"  and  away 
he  went  into  another  convulsion  of  mirth.  The  others  turned  just  in 
time  to  see  Pete  cease  his  frantic  grimaces  of  secrecy  at  his  master, 
and  sheepishly  lower  an  ancient  fowling-piece  which  he  had  had  leveled 
at  Bob  Lee. 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  with  that  gun  leveled  at  me?"  asked 
Lee,  his  own  face  twitching. 

"I  was  gwine  to  fiah  jes'  befo'  dey  said  free.  I  wa'n't  gwine  to  kill 
you,  Mas'  Bob.     I  was  on'y  gwine  to  lame  you." 

Another  peal  of  laughter  from  the  whole  crowd  followed  this  con- 
descending statement. 

"You  unconscionable  scoundrel,  youl  If  I  was  your  master,  I'd 
give  you  a  hundred  lashes." 

"Pete,"  said  his  master,  "don't  you  know  that  it  is  dishonorable  to 
shoot  a  man  from  behind?  You  see  you  haven't  in  you  the  making 
of  a  gentleman." 

"I  do'  know  nuffin'  'bout  mekin'  a  gent'man,  but  I  does  know  how 
to  save  one  dat's  already  made." 

The  prime  object  of  the  meeting  had  been  entirely  forgotten.  They 
gathered  around  Pete  and  examined  the  weapon. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Randolph,  "we  have  been  saved  by  a  miracle. 
This  old  gun,  as  well  as  I  can  remember  and  count,  has  been  loaded 
for  the  past  twenty-five  years,  and  if  Pete  had  tried  to  fire  it,  it 
would  have  torn  up  all  this  part  of  the  country." 

Then  the  eyes  of  the  two  combatants  met.    There  was  something 


298  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

irresistibly  funny  in  the  whole  situation,  and  they  found  themselves 
roaring  again.  Then,  with  one  impulse,  they  shook  hands  without  a 
word. 

And  Pete  led  the  way  home,  the  willing  butt  of  a  volume  of  good- 
natured  abuse. — From  "Folks  from  Dixie,"  copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead 
&  Company,  New  York,  and  used  by  arrangement. 


PART  THREE 

Melodious  Reading 

Conversational  elements:  Pitch,  Inflection,  Color,  Stress,  Pause, 
Movement,  Time.  Separate  discussions  and  illustrations  with 
number  of  exercises  for  the  pupil  to  practice.  Melody  in  verse  and 
in  prose. 

EXPRESSIVE  SPEECH1 

By  Robert  Lloyd 

'Tis  not  enough  the  voice  be  sound  and  clear, 
'Tis  modulation  that  must  charm  the  ear. 
When  desperate  heroines  grieve  with  tedious  moan, 
And  whine  their  sorrows  in  a  see-saw  tone, 
The  same  soft  sounds  of  unimpassioned  woes 
Can  only  make  the  yawning  hearer  doze. 

That  voice  all  modes  of  passion  can  express 
Which  marks  the  proper  word  with  proper  stress; 
But  none  emphatic  can  the  reader  call 
Who  lays  an  equal  emphasis  on  all. 

He  who  in  earnest  studies  o'er  his  part 

Will  find  true  nature  cling  about  his  heart. 

The  modes  of  grief  are  not  included  all 

In  the  white  handkerchief  and  mournful  drawl. 

A  single  look  more  marks  the  internal  woe 

Than  all  the  windings  of  the  lengthened  O! 

Up  to  the  face  the  quick  sensation  flies, 

And  darts  its  meaning  from  the  speaking  eyes. 

Love,  transport,  madness,  anger,  scorn,  despair, 

And  all  the  passions,  all  the  soul  is  there. 

l  Robert  Lloyd  was  an  English  poet  of  the  middle  eighteenth  century. 


CHAPTER  X 

MELODIOUS  READING 

What  charm  and  delight  surround  a  sweet,  melodious  voice, 
whether  of  woman  or  man.  Who  is  there  that  does  not  recall 
such  a  voice  and  its  influence  upon  him?  Who  does  not  have 
clinging  memories  of  the  voice  of  the  mother,  crooning  over 
her  babe,  or  singing  a  sweet  lullaby  as  it  lay  at  her  breast ;  of  a 
father,  softening  its  strong  and  resonant  power  to  soothe  the 
restlessness  of  his  little  one  who  was  sick;  of  the  blushing 
maiden,  who  consciously  or  unconsciously  had  learned  the  im- 
measurably greater  power  exercised  over  her  fellows,  whether 
of  her  own  or  the  opposite  sex,  by  a  soft,  pure,  well-controlled 
voice,  rather  than  the  high-pitched,  tense,  loud  and  harsh  chat- 
ter of  her  associates.  The  calm,  quiet,  soft  and  low-pitched, 
though  firm,  voice  of  the  teacher,  the  parent,  the  employer,  the 
salesman,  the  speaker,  the  statesman,  is  far  more  effective,  far 
more  likely  to  attain  its  end  than  the  harsh,  raucous,  loud,  too 
emphatic  and  high-pitched  voice  of  the  uncontrolled,  untaught, 
or  careless  speaker.  And  to  listen  to  a  reader,  be  he  preacher, 
lawyer,  judge,  or  orator,  reading  in  public  to  a  large  audi- 
ence, or  for  the  pleasure  and  instruction  of  his  own  loved 
ones,  or  a  few  chosen  friends,  whose  voice  is  melodious  in 
every  cadence,  whose  every  intonation  is  musical  and  in  good 
taste,  what  joy  such  a  reader  is  able  to  bestow.  How  memory 
thrills  as  we  recall  a  few  readers  of  this  type.  Why  should 
they  be  so  few?  Why  should  there  be  so  many  harsh,  nasal, 
raucous,  high-pitched,  unmelodious  voices?  The  reason  is 
found  mainly  in  lack  of  training,  lack  of  a  little  thought,  in- 

301 


302  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

difference  to  the  possession  of  the  finer  gifts  of  life.  For 
every  boy  and  girl  has  it  in  his  or  her  power,  by  the  exercise 
of  a  little  care,  a  little  thought,  a  little  self-restraint,  a  little 
time  spent  in  discipline  to  produce  the  sweet  and  charming 
voice,  with  clean-cut,  distinct,  pleasing  enunciation  and  pronun- 
ciation that  will  afford  joy  during  the  whole  of  a  long  life. 

One's  own  ear  will  tell  whether  his  voice  is  properly  pitched, 
pleasing,  melodious,  or  the  opposite.  A  few  minutes  spent  in 
speech  daily  before  a  looking-glass  will  forever  fix  the  habit 
of  making  the  face  pleasing;  and  an  hour  a  day  for  a  month 
will  fix  perfect  habits  of  pronunciation  and  enunciation  that 
will  remain,  through  life.  When  these  arts  are  fixed,  then  a 
few  hours'  study  of  the  thought  of  the  author  and  the  inflec- 
tions and  modulations  of  the  voice  necessary  to  represent,  to 
convey  to  the  ear  of  the  listener,  the  full  power  of  that  thought, 
and  the  reader  has  equipped  himself,  herself,  to  give  joy  to 
countless  thousands.  Is  it  not  worth  while  to  spend  a  few 
hours  to  gain  such  power  ? 

Exercises  in  Inflection 

By  inflection  is  meant  the  glide  of  the  voice  within  a  word 
to  a  higher  or  a  lower  pitch.  This  glide  may  be  quick  and 
short,  or  long  and  slow.  It  may  be  a  rising  or  a  falling  glide, 
or  both.  The  value  of  inflection  rests  in  its  power  to  make 
what  is  said  more  emphatic,  to  aid  in  clear  enunciation,  to  aid 
in  overcoming  monotony.  On  all  emphasized  words  we  have 
an  intensified  inflection.  This  is  illustrated  in  Portia's  speech 
in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice."  In  studying  this  excerpt  we 
discover  that  all  the  emphasized  words  have  a  pronounced 
inflection.  In  the  first  group  of  words,  "If  to  do  were  as  easy 
as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do,"  we  find  the  most  intensified 
inflection  is  upon  the  word  "know"  because  this  is  the  most 
emphatic  word  of  the  group.  This  reveals  that  inflection  is 
one  of  the  most  vital  means  of  emphasis. 


MELODIOUS  READING 


303 


In  regard  to  inflection  as  an  aid  to  clear  enunciation,  we 
find  that  inflection  occurs  upon  the  accented  syllable  of  a  long 
word,  and  if  due  attention  is  given  to  the  syllable  upon  which 
the  accent  falls,  the  word  will  receive  a  more  perfect  utterance. 
For  instance,  we  can  readily  see  in  the  following  words,  which 
are  often  mispronounced,  the  important  part  that  inflection 
plays  in  the  proper  pronunciation  of  them : 


abdomen 

exquisite 

mausoleum 

abject 

finance 

mischievous 

acclimate 

grimace 

obligatory 

address 

herculean 

research 

admirable 

horizon 

resource 

alias 

impious 

superfluous 

brigand 

impotent 

traverse 

caricature 

incomparable 

vagary 

chastisement 

indisputable 

vehement 

chauffeur 

industry 

vehicle 

combatant 

inexplicable 

virago 

contumely 

interpolate 

verbose 

demoniacal 

inquiry 

virtue 

discourse 

lyceum 

virtually 

(For  the  correct  pronunciations  see  Webster's  New  Inter- 
national  Dictionary.) 

We  readily  see  that  the  proper  use  of  inflection  cannot  help 
but  give  variety  and  contrast  to  our  speech,  and  this  aids  im- 
measurably in  overcoming  the  persistent  use  of  monotones. 

We  shall  take  up  the  different  kinds  of  inflection  and  illus- 
trate them  with  appropriate  exercises.  The  student  should 
consider  the  aim  and  value  of  each  kind  of  inflection  and  then 
proceed  to  practice  orally  the  exercises,  listening  intently  to 
his  voice  to  see  that  it  responds. 

Kinds  of  Inflection 

Falling  Glide  in  the  voice  indicates  a  complete  and  positive 
assertion.     For  example: 


304  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"The  Prince's  banner  wavered,  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes !" 
A  command,  although  punctuated  with  a  question  mark,  is 
rendered  with  a  falling  glide  in  the  voice.     For  example : 

"Halt!  who  goes  there?"    "Speak,  what  trade  art  thou?" 

Rising  Glide  in  the  voice  indicates  incompleteness  and  doubt. 
For  example : 

"How  'the  fellow  by  the  name  of  Rowan'  took  the  letter,  sealed  it  up 
in  an  oilskin  pouch,  strapped  it  over  his  heart,  in  four  days  landed  by 
night  off  the  coast  of  Cuba  from  an  open  boat,  disappeared  into  the 
jungle,  and  in  three  weeks  came  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  island, 
having  traversed  a  hostile  country  on  foot,  and  delivered  his  letter  to 
Garcia,  are  things  I  have  no  special  desire  now  to  tell  in  detail." 

Circumflex  Glide  indicates  a  twist  in  the  voice  which  reflects 

a  like  twist  in  the  mind. 

Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to,  since  you  say  so. 

Exercises  for  Inflectional  Agility: 

I  find  earth  not  gray  but  rosy,  heaven  not  grim  but  fair  of  hue. 
Do  I  stoop?    I  pluck  a  posy.    Do  I  stand  and  stare?    All's  blue. 

— Browning. 


I  must  have  left  my  book  on  this  table  last  night.     (Read  two  ways.) 


There  are  three  pleasures  pure  and  lasting,  and  all  derived   from 
inanimate  things — books,  pictures,  and  the  face  of  nature. — Hazlitt. 


We  are  perplexed,  but  not  in  despair ;  persecuted,  but  not  forsaken ; 
cast  down,  but  not  destroyed. 


What  right  have  you,  O  passer  by  the  way,  to  call  any  flower  a  weed? 
Do  you  know  its  merits?  Its  virtues?  Its  healing  qualities?  Be- 
cause a  thing  is  common,  shall  you  despise  it?  If  so,  you  might  de- 
spise the  sunshine  for  the  same  reason. 


Oh,  yes,  I  begin  to  remember  you  now.    Do  you  really  think  it  true  ? 


Yes,  he's  a  millionaire.     (Read  two  ways.) 


MELODIOUS  READING  305 

Breathes  there  a  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well. 

— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Now  clear,  pure,  hard,  bright,  and  one  by  one,  like  the  hailstones, 

Short  words  fall  from  his  lips  fast  as  the  first  of  a  shower, 

Now  in  two-fold  column :     Spondae,  Iamb,  Trochee, 

Unbroken,  firm-set,  advance,  retreat,  trampling  along, — 

Now  with  a  sprightlier  springiness,  bounding  in  triplicate  syllables, 

Dance  the  elastic  Dactylics  in  musical  cadences  on ; 

Now  their  voluminous  coil  intertangling  like  huge  anacondas, 

Roll  overwhelmingly  onward  the  sesquipedalian  words. 

— Browning. 

Resolve ! 
To  keep  my  health ! 
To  do  my  workl 
To  livel 

To  see  to  it  that  I  grow  and  gain  and  give ! 
Never  to  look  behind  me  for  an  hourl 
To  wait  in  weakness  and  to  walk  in  power; 
But  always  fronting  onward  to  the  light. 
Always  and  always  facing  toward  the  right. 
Robbed,  starved,  defeated,  wide  astray — 
On,  with  what  strength  I  have! 
Back  to  the  way  I 

A  very  interesting  and  helpful  exercise  in  the  study  of  in- 
flection is  the  use  of  the  one-word  dialogue.     The  following 
scene,  written  by  a  pupil,  is  given  as  an  illustration  : 
Scene:    Midnight;  and  the  two  are  awakened  by  a  noise. 

She.    Philipe! 

He.    What? 

She.     Burglar ! 

He.     Where? 


306  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

She.    Bathroom  I 

He.    Gun  ? 

She.    No! 

He.    Sh-h! 

She  (fainting).    Darling! 

He.    Huh!     Cat!     (catching  her). 

It  is  by  use  of  tone  and  inflection  that  the  following  exer- 
cises are  properly  rendered. 

How  are  you  to-day?  Ha.  (inquiry,  surprise). 

I  say  how  are  you  to-day?  Ha.  (rising  doubt). 

Have  you  suddenly  become  deaf?  Ha.  (indignation). 

I  have  been  trying  to  find  out  how  Ha.  (satisfaction,  laugh). 

.   you  are  to-day.  Ha.  (short  grunt). 

I  am  glad  you.  heard  me.  Ha.  (do  not  believe  it). 

I  am  on  my  way  to  the  store.  Ha.  (glad  to). 
Will  you  go  with  me? 

A  Study  of  Pitch 

Pitch  is  simply  the  modulation  of  the  voice  as  high  or  low. 
In  natural  speech  we  seldom  have  more  than  one  word  on  the 
same  pitch.  Note  the  constant  change  of  pitch  in  a  good  con- 
versationalist.    In  listening  to  such,  we  discover  what? 

First:  If  one  idea  is  expressed  on  one  pitch,  its  antithesis  is 
instinctively  expressed  on  another  pitch.  For  example: 
"When  our  vices  leave  us,  we  flatter  ourselves  we  leave  them." 
"The  prodigal  robs  his  heir,  the  miser  robs  himself."  "Excess 
of  ceremony  shows  want  of  breeding." 

Second:  A  quick  leap  of  the  mind  causes  a  leap  in  the  voice, 
or,  in  other  words,  it  causes  a  change  of  pitch.  For  example : 
"So  you  say  you  are  going  to — Well,  hello,  John!  How  did 
you  get  here  ?" 

There  can  be  no  definite  rules  laid  down  governing  Changes 
of  Pitch.  If  we  think  progressively,  giving  ourselves  com- 
pletely to  each  successive  idea,  permitting  our  movement  of 


MELODIOUS  READING  30? 

tone  to  be  the  direct  outcome  of  the  action  of  the  mind  we 
shall  have  no  difficulty  in  modulating  our  pitch. 

In  reading  the  following  selections,  note  carefully  the  nat- 
ural tendency  of  the  voice  to  change  pitch  as  the  mind  leaps 
from  one  thought  to  another. 

O  larks,  sing  out  to  the  thrushes, 

And  thrushes,  sing  to  the  sky ! 
Sing  from  your  nests  in  the  bushes, 

And  sing  wherever  you  fly. 


Then  sing,  O  bird  in  the  tree, 

Then  sing,  skylark  in  the  blue, 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King  may  hear, 

And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you. 


I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 
And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance. 


Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks,— 
Ere  I  own  a  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox ; 
And  tremble,  false  whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me. 


If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do,  chapels  had 
been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good 
divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions.  I  can  easier  teach  twenty 
what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine 
own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the  blood;  but  a  hot 
temper  leaps  over  a  cold  decree :  such  a  hare  is  madness,  the  youth,  to 
skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the  cripple. — "Merchant  of 
Venice." 


Extremely  high:     Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  half  a  league  onward ! 
Very  high:     Hats  off!  along  the  street  they  come!  The  flag  is  pass- 
ing by. 


308  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

High:     Sail  on,  sail  on,  O  ship  of  state! 
Rather  high:     Now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour! 
Middle:     In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  roar. 
Rather  low:     No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
Low:     Sunset  and  evening  star 

And  one  clear  call  for  me. 
Very  low:     Quoth  the  raven,  "Never  more." 
Low  as  possible:     O  death,  where  is  thy  sting! 

Study  in  Stress 

If  we  read  or  speak  aloud  naturally  and  earnestly,  there 
occurs  in  our  voice  a  succession  of  beats  or  pulsations.  If 
these  pulsations  occur  at  regular  intervals,  our  speech  will 
be  "singsong"  and  monotonous.     Thus: 

a 
I  wandered  lonely  cloud 

as 

and 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  hills, 

vales 
a 
When  all  at  once  I  crowd 

saw 
o 
A  host  of  golden  dills, 

daff 

The  fault  is  that  we  are  responding  to  the  rhythm  of  the  line 
instead  of  the  rhythm  of  the  thought.  There  should  be 
rhythmic  action  of  the  voice,  but,  at  all  times,  it  should  be  in 
perfect  harmony  with  the  rhythmic  action  of  the  mind.  There- 
fore, we  see  again  that  correct  reading  depends  upon  getting 
the  correct  thought. 

It  is  very  important  that  we  have  control  of  our  voice  in 
stress  or  force  of  utterance.  If  a  teacher  requires  one  pupil 
out  of  a  class  of  twenty  to  go  on  an  errand  for  him,  there  is 


MELODIOUS  READING  309 

but  one  way  of  clearly  expressing  that  thought  in  the  follow- 
ing sentence:     Thus: 

Will  you  please  return  this  book  to  the  library? 

If  we  make  prominent  any  other  word  than  "you,"  we  shall 
not  be  clear  as  to  who  shall  return  the  book.  Read  the  above 
sentence  in  as  many  ways  as  there  are  different  meanings. 

Practice  reading  aloud  the  following  with  especial  attention 
to  stress.  Be  sure  that  the  action  of  the  voice  corresponds  to 
the  action  of  the  mind.     Stress  is  indicated  by  italics. 

Rouse,  ye  Romans  !     Rouse,  ye  slaves  ! 


Worcester,  get  thee  gone,  for  I  do  see 
Danger  and  disobedience  in  thine  eyes. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us ;  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you. 

— Shakespeare. 

Abraham  Lincoln  used  scripture  quotations  very  frequently  and  pow- 
erfully. 

All  learning  is  valuable;  all  history  is  useful.  By  knowing  what  has 
been  we  can  better  judge  the  future;  by  knowing  how  men  have  acted 
heretofore  we  can  understand  how  they  will  act  again  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances. 

Place  the  stress  in  the  following  exercises : 

It  is  a  compliment  to  a  public  speaker  that  the  audience  should 
discuss  what  he  says  rather  than  his  manner  of  saying  it;  more  com- 
plimentary that  they  should  remember  his  arguments,  than  that  they 
should  praise  his  rhetoric.  The  speaker  should  seek  to  conceal  himself 
behind  his  subject. 

Our  country  is  in  danger,  but  not  to  be  despaired  of.  Our  enemies 
are  numerous  and  powerful ;  but  we  have  many  friends,  determining  to 
be  free,  and  Heaven  and  earth  will  aid  the  resolution.  On  you  depend 
the  fortunes  of  America.  You  are  to  decide  the  important  questions 
on  which  rest  the  happiness  and  liberty  of  millions  yet  unborn.  Act 
worthy  of  yourselves.  The  faltering  tongue  of  hoary  age  calls  on  you 
to  support  your  country.     The  lisping  infant  raises  its  suppliant  hands, 


310  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

imploring    defense   against    the    monster,    slavery. — Joseph    Warren, 
"Boston  Massacre." 

Thou  know'st,  great  son, 
The  end  of  war's  uncertain,  but  this  certain, 
That  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 
Which  thou  shalt  thereby  reap  in  such  a  name 
Whose  repetition  will  be  dogg'd  with  curses; 
Whose  chronicle  thus  writ :    "The  man  was  noble, 
But  with  his  last  attempt  he  wiped  it  out, 
Destroyed  his  country,  and  his  name  remains 
To  the  ensuing  age  abhorred." 

— Shakespeare,  "Coriolanus." 

We  say  to  you  (our  opponents)  that  you  have  made  the  definition  of 
a  business  man  too  limited  in  its  application.  The  man  who  is  em- 
ployed for  wages  is  as  much  a  business  man  as  his  employer;  the 
attorney  in  a  country  town  is  as  much  a  business  man  as  the  corpora- 
tion counsel  in  a  great  metropolis ;  the  merchant  at  the  cross-roads 
store  is  as  much  a  business  man  as  the  merchant  of  New  York;  the 
farmer  who  goes  forth  in  the  morning  and  toils  all  day,  who  begins  in 
the  spring  and  toils  all  summer,  and  who  by  application  of  brain  and 
muscle  to  the  natural  resources  of  the  country  creates  wealth,  is  as 
much  a  business  man  as  the  man  who  goes  upon  the  Board  of  Trade 
and  bets  upon  the  price  of  grain ;  the  miners  who  go  down  a  thousand 
feet  into  the  earth,  or  climb  2,0()p  feet  upon  the  cliffs,  and  bring  forth 
from  their  hiding-places  the  precious  metals  to  be  poured  into  the 
channels  of  trade,  are  as  much  business  men  as  the  few  financial  mag- 
nates who  in  a  back  room  corner  the  money  of  the  world.  We  come 
to  speak  for  this  broader  class  of  business  men. 

Oh  do  not  pray  for  easy  lives.  Pray  to  be  stronger  men.  Do  not 
pray  for  tasks  equal  to  your  powers,  pray  for  power  equal  to  your 
tasks ;  then  the  doing  of  your  work  shall  be  no  miracle.  But  you  shall 
be  a  miracle.  Every  day  you  shall  wonder  at  yourself,  at  the  richness 
of  life,  which  lias  come  to  you  by  the  grace  of  God. — Phillips  Brooks. 

There  is  so  much  good  in  the  worst  of  us, 
And  so  much  bad  in  the  best  of  us, 
That  it  hardly  behooves  any  of  us, 
To  talk  about  the  rest  of  us. 

—Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 


MELODIOUS  READING  311 

If  you  would  be  known,  and  not  know,  vegetate  in  a  village ;  if  you 
would  know  and  not  be  known,  live  in  a  city. — Colton. 

No  man  is  inspired  by  the  occasion;  I  never  was. — Webster. 
(Does  stress  fall  upon  "I,"  or  upon  "never"?) 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill, 

I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still; 

In  men  whom  men  account  divine, 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 

I  hesitate  to  draw  the  line  between  the  two, 

Where  God  has  not. 

— Joaquin  Miller. 

ALL  IN  THE  EMPHASIS 

By  Edwin  Markham 

Written  expressly  for  Delight  and  Power  in  Speech 

The  crows  flew  over  my  field  at  morn, 
Shouting  disdain :  "Such  corn,  such  corn  l" 
Hearing  this,  I  said,  "My  corn  is  safe ; 
When  crows  deride,  the  corn  is  safe," 

But  the  next  hour  I  looked  indeed, 
And  they  were  digging  up  the  seed, 
And  shouting  still — not  now  in  scorn 
But  in  delight — "Such  corn,  such  corn  1" 

A  Study  of  the  Pause 

When  we  pause  we  suspend  our  speech,,  but  continue  our 
thought.  It  is  a  resting  place  for  us  better  to  conceive  of  the 
importance  either  of  the  thought  just  expressed  or  of  the  one 
that  follows.  The  mind  is  busy  re-creating  a  new  idea  for  the 
one  who  is  listening.  Pausing  gives  time  for  the  speaker  to 
get  the  new  idea  and  it  also  gives  time  for  the  auditor  to  hear 
the  new  idea.  It  often  occurs  that  we  are  more  impressive 
during  the  interval  of  pausing  than  during  the  interval  of 
speech.     The  majority  of  people  in  ordinary  conversation  do 


312  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

not  use  the  pause  enough.     One  result  is  that  they  are  unin- 
teresting and  monotonous  in  speech. 

In  the  following  excerpt,  taken  from  an  address  by  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  indicate  the  frequency  of  pauses  and  then  tell 
fully,  in  your  own  words,  what  the  successive  ideas  are  upon 
which  the  mind  is  concentrating: 

Now,  a  living  force  that  brings  to  itself  all  the  resources  of  the 
imagination,  all  the  inspirations  of  feeling,  all  that  is  influential  in 
body,  in  voice,  in  eye,  in  gesture,  in  posture,  in  the  whole  animated 
man,  is  in  strict  analogy  with  the  divine  thought  and  the  divine  ar- 
rangement ;  and  there  is  no  misconception  more  utterly  untrue  and  fatal 
than  this:  that  oratory  is  an  artificial  thing,  which  deals  with  baubles 
and  trifles,  for  the  sake  of  making  bubbles  of  pleasure  for  transient 
effect  on  mercurial  audiences.  So  far  from  that,  it  is  the  consecration 
of  the  whole  man  to  the  noblest  purposes  to  which  one  can  address 
himself — the  education  and  inspiration  of  his  fellow-men  by  all  that 
there  is  in  learning,  by  all  that  there  is  in  thought,  by  all  that  there 
is  in  feeling,  by  all  that  there  is  in  all  of  them,  sent  home  through  the 
channels  of  taste  and  beauty.  And  so  regarded,  oratory  should  take 
its  place  among  the  highest  departments  of  education. 

In  reading  the  following  of  what  value  is  pause?  Does  it 
indicate  distance?  Make  selections  from  your  own  reading 
which  illustrate  the  importance  of  the  pause. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going; 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 

— Tennyson. 


What  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fullness  of  the  days?     Have  we  withered  or  agonized? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue  thence  ? 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe; 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  He  whispers  in  the  ear; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome ;  'tis  we  musicians  know. 

— Browning. 


MELODIOUS  READING  313 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor-lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  I 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill: 
But  oh !  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  1 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  1 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

— Tennyson. 

Kind  of  Pauses 

Pauses  may  be  long  or  short,  frequent  or  seldom. 
In  the  following  exercises  indicate  where  and  what  kind  of 
pauses  you  would  naturally  have : 

Woman  without  her  man  is  a  brute 

Speech  is  a  jewel  silence  must  form  its  setting 

Silas  Marner  decided  to  keep  the  child  who  was  frozen  one  evening 
outside  his  house  in  the  snow 

We  will  hang  together  or  we  will  hang  separately 

Pausing  is  to  speaking  what  shading  is  to  drawing 

The  perfection  of  art  is  to  conceal  art 

Henry  wrote  the  book 

What  do  you  think  I'll  shave  you  for  nothing  and  give  you  plenty  to 
eat  and  something  to  drink 

Study  of  the  Importance  of  Tone 

When  we  are  speaking  in  ordinary  conversation,  or  in  public 
address,  the  tones  we  use  have  much  to  do  in  making  our 
meaning  clear.  How  often  a  person,  merely  by  the  tone  of  his 
voice,  conveys  an  entirely  different  meaning  than  was  intended. 
He  is  accused  of  being  sarcastic  when  he  had  no  intention  that 
his  remark  should  be  so  regarded. 


314  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Let  us  remember  that  in  whatever  state  of  mind  we  may  be 
it  is  unconsciously  reflected  in  our  voice.  If  we  feel  timid, 
embarrassed  or  self-conscious  it  is  registered  in  our  tone 
when  we  speak.  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  feel  gay,  opti- 
mistic, earnest  and  confident  these  moods  are  likewise  re- 
vealed in  our  speech.  Thus  we  find  tone  to  be  an  index  to 
character. 

The  function  of  tone-color  is  most  important.  It  reveals 
the  subtle  changes  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings.  It  can  make 
the  hearer  see  more  clearly  and  feel  more  deeply  what  you  say. 
Nothing  so  quickly  reveals  your  sincerity  of  purpose  as  the 
tone  of  your  voice.  It  is  the  source  of  the  greatest  pleasure 
to  the  hearer.  It  marks  you  as  a  cultured  person.  And  best 
of  all  it  cannot  be  regulated  by  rule.  If  you  can  express  the 
tone  admiration  in  colloquial  language,  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  cannot  express  it  in  the  language  of  a  Browning  or  a 
Shakespeare. 

It  is  not  so  much  what  you  say, 

As  the  manner  in  which  you  say  it; 
It  is  not  so  much  the  language  you  use, 

As  the  tones  in  which  you  convey  it. 

"Come  here!"  I  sharply  said, 

And  the  baby  cowered  and  wept; 
"Come  here !"  I  cooed  and  he  looked  and  smiled, 

And  straight  to  my  lap  he  crept. 

The  words  may  be  mild  and  fair, 

And  the  tones  may  pierce  like  a  dart ; 

The  words  may  be  soft  as  the  summer  air, 
And  the  tones  may  break  the  heart. 

For  words  but  come  from  the  mind, 

And  grow  by  study  and  art; 
But  the  tones  leap  forth  from  the  inner  self, 

And  reveal  the  state  of  the  heart. 


MELODIOUS  READING  315 

Whether  you  know  it  or  not — 

Whether  you  mean  or  care, 
Gentleness,  kindness,  love  and  hate, 

Envy  and  anger  are  there. 

Then  would  you  quarrels  avoid, 

And  in  peace  and  love  rejoice, 
Keep  anger  not  only  out  of  your  words, 

But  keep  it  out  of  your  voice. 

— Sarah  Edwards  Henshaw. 

In  Part  II  instructions  were  given  in  word  analysis  and 
thought-grouping.  Let  the  student  analyze  the  words,  outline 
the  thought-groups  and  determine  just  where  the  pause  natu- 
rally falls,  and  whether  the  interval  of  rest  is  long  or  short,  in 
the  following  selections.  He  should  also  be  able  to  explain 
just  why  certain  groups  are  separated  by  a  long,  and  others  by 
a  short,  pause. 

A  MESSAGE  TO  GARCIA 

By  Elbert  Hubbard 

(Extract  from  The  Philistine  for  March,  1899.) 

When  war  broke  out  between  Spain  and  the  United  States,  it  was 
necessary  to  communicate  quickly  with  the  leader  of  the  Insurgents. 
Garcia  was  somewhere  in  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  Cuba — no  one 
knew  where.  No  mail  or  telegraph  message  could  reach  him.  The 
President  must  secure  his  cooperation,  and  quickly. 

What  to  do ! 

Some  one  said  to  the  President,  "There's  a  fellow  by  the  name  of 
Rowan  will  find  Garcia  for  you  if  anybody  can."  Rowan  was  sent  for 
and  given  a  letter  to  be  delivered  to  Garcia.  How  "the  fellow  by  the 
name  of  Rowan"  took  the  letter,  sealed  it  up  in  an  oilskin  pouch, 
strapped  it  over  his  heart,  in  four  days  landed  by  night  off  the  coast 
of  Cuba  from  an  open  boat,  disappeared  into  the  jungle,  and  in  three 
weeks  came  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  having  traversed  a 
hostile  country  on  foot,  and  delivered  his  letter  to  Garcia,  are  things  I 
have  no  special  desire  now  to  tell  in  detail. 


316  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  point  I  wish  to  make  is  this :  McKinley  gave  Rowan  a  letter  to 
be  delivered  to  Garcia ;  Rowan  took  the  letter  and  did  not  ask  "Where 
is  he  at?"  By  the  Eternal!  there  is  a  man  whose  form  should  be  cast 
in  deathless  bronze  and  the  statue  placed  in  every  college  of  the  land. 
It  is  not  book-learning  young  men  need,  nor  instructions  about  this 
and  that,  but  a  stiffening  of  the  vertebrae  which  will  cause  them  to  be 
loyal  to  a  trust,  to  act  promptly,  concentrate  their  energies;  do  the 
thing — "Carry  a  message  to  Garcia  1" 

The  following  is  a  one-minute  composition  by  a  student, 
illustrating  the  power  of  tone  and  also  of  mood  suspense: 

The  lion  crept  stealthily  onward,  ever  onward,  with  his  eyes  fixedly 
staring  at  the  unfortunate  boy  who  cowered  before  him.  The  boy, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  backed  slowly  toward  a  yawning  preci- 
pice. He  was  on  the  edge !  The  loose  earth  was  slowly  crumbling 
under  his  feet!  He  was  falling!  The  earth  was  coming  up  to  meet 
him  at  a  terrific  rate.  Another  second,  and  he  would  be  dashed  to 
death  on  those  rocks  below ! 

Then  a  sweet  voice  called  to  him:    "Time  to  get  up,  Johnnie." 

A  most  striking  example  of  the  power  of  suspense  is  Mark 
Twain's  story  of  "The  Golden  Arm." 

Once  'pon  a  time  dey  wuz  a  monsus  mean  man,  'en  he  live  'way  out 
in  de  prairie  all  'lone  by  hisself,  'cep'n  he  had  a  wife.  En  bimeby  she 
died,  en  he  tuck  en  toted  her  way  out  dah  in  de  prairie  en  buried  her. 
Well,  she  had  a  golden  arm — all  solid  gold,  fum  de  shoulder  down. 
He  wuz  pow'ful  mean — pow'ful;  en  dat  night  he  couldn't  sleep,  caze 
he  want  dat  golden  arm  so  bad. 

When  it  come  midnight  he  couldn't  stan'  it  no  mo ;  so  he  git  up, 
he  did,  en  tuck  his  lantern  en  shoved  out  throo  de  storm  en  dug  her  up 
en  got  de  golden  arm ;  en  he  bent  his  head  down  'gin  de  win',  en 
plowed,  en  plowed,  en  plowed  throo  de  snow.  Den  all  on  a  sudden  he 
stop  (make  a  considerable  pause  here,  and  look  startled,  and  take  a 
listening  attitude)  en  say:     "My  Ian*,  what's  dat!" 

En  he  listen — en  listen — en  de  win'  say  (set  your  teeth  together  and 
imitate  the  wailing  and  wheezing  singsong  of  the  wind),  "Bzzz-z-zzz" 
— en  den,  way  back  yonder  whah  de  grave  is,  he  hear  a  voice! — he 
hear  a  voice  all  mix'  up  in  de  win' — can't  hardly  tell  'em  'part — "Bzzz- 
zzz— W-h-o— g-o-t— m-y— g-o-l-d-e-n   Arm?— zzz-zzz— W-H-0    G-O-T 


MELODIOUS  READING  317 

M-Y   G-O-L-D-E-N  ARM?      (You  must  begin  to  shiver  violently  now.) 

En  he  begin  to  shiver  en  shake,  en  say,  "Oh,  my !  Oh,  my  Ian'  1  en  de 
win'  blow  de  lantern  out,  en  de  snow  en  sleet  blow  in  his  face  en  'mos' 
choke  him,  en  he  start  a-plowin'  knee-deep  towards  home  mos*  dead, 
he  so  sk'yerd — en  pooty  soon  he  hear  de  voice  agin,  en  (pause)  it  is 
comin'  after  him!  "Bzzz-zzz-zzz  —  W-h-o — G-o-t  —  M-y  —  G-o-l-d-e-n 
arm?" 

When  he  git  in  de  pasture  he  hear  it  agin — closter  now,  en  a-comin' ! 
— a-comin'  back  dah  in  de  dark  en  de  storm — (repeat  the  wind  and  the 
voice).  When  he  git  to  de  house  he  rush  upstairs  en  jump  in  de  bed 
en  kiver  up,  head  and  years,  en  lay  dah  shiverin'  en  shakin' — en  den 
way  out  dah  he  hear  it  ag'in! — en  a-comin'!  En  bimeby  he  hear 
(pause — awed,  listening  attitude) — pat — pat — pat — hit's  a-comin'  up- 
stairs!    Den  he  hear  de  latch,  en  he  know  it's  in  de  room ! 

Den  pooty  soon  he  know  it's  a-standin'  by  his  bed!  (Pause.)  Den 
— he  know  it's  a-bendin'  down  over  him — en  he  cain't  skasely  git  his 
breath !  Den — den — he  seem  to  feel  somethin'  c-o-l-d,  right  down  'most 
agin  his  head!     (Pause.) 

Den  de  voice  say,  right  at  his  ear — "W-h-o — g-o-t — m-y — g-o-l-d-e-n 
arm?  (You  must  wail  it  out  plaintively  and  accusingly;  the^i  you 
stare  steadily  and  impressively  into  the  face  of  the  farthest-gone  audi- 
tor— a  girl  preferably — and  let  that  awe-inspiring  pause  begin  to  build 
itself  in  the  deep  hush.  When  it  has  reached  exactly  the  right  length, 
jump  suddenly  at  that  girl  and  yell,  "You've  got  it!"  If  you've  got  the 
pause  right,  she'll  fetch  a  dear  little  yelp  and  spring  right  out  of  her 
shoes.  But  you  must  get  the  pause  right ;  and  you  will  find  it  the  most 
troublesome  and  aggravating  and  uncertain  thing  you  ever  undertook.) 

The  student  may  give  himself  fine  exercise  by  choosing  any 
one  of  the  following  moods  and  writing  a  one-minute  compo- 
sition upon  it.  Then  let  him  read  it  aloud  with  the  appro- 
priate tone : 

Admiration,  Appeal,  Argument,  Comparison,  Challenge,  Command, 
Excitement,  Geniality,  Solemnity,  Reproof,  Modesty,  Contempt,  En- 
couragement, Determination,  Affection,  Pity,  Joy,  Gloom,  Hate, 
Friendliness,  Aspiration,  Warning,  Meditation,  Horror,  Belittlement, 
Exultation,  Despair,  Confusion,  Calmness,  Indifference,  Suspense,  Fear, 
Awe,  Haste. 

A  wonderful  illustration  of  "Mood"  is  afforded  in  a  mar- 


318  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

velous  poem  written  by  Bartholomew  Dowling,  at  one  time  the 
editor  of  The  Mirror,  in  San  Francisco,  California.  It  de- 
picts the  "heroism  of  despair,"  as,  perhaps,  it  was  never  pre- 
sented before  or  since  in  all  literature.  Without  commending 
the  sentiment  expressed,  the  authors  give  this  poem  a  place  in 
their  volume  as  an  incomparable  example,  well  worthy  of  pro- 
longed study,  of  the  power  of  words  to  express  "mood."  One 
of  the  greatest  dramatists  the  world  has  ever  known  used  to 
read  this  poem  aloud,  daily,  for  years. 

HURRAH  FOR  THE  NEXT  THAT  DIES  I1 
By  Bartholomew  Dowling 

We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare : 
As  they  shout  back  our  peals  of  laughter, 

It  seems  as  the  dead  were  there. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

We  drink  'fore  our  comrades'  eyes ; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already : 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet; 
'Tis  cold  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 
But  stand  to  your  glasses  ! — steady ! 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise. 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already : 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

There's  many  a  hand  that's  shaking, 

And  many  a  cheek  that's  sunk; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They'll  burn  with  the  wine  we've  drunk. 

1  This  remarkable  poem  relates  to  revelry  in  India  at  a  time  when  the  English 
officers  serving  in  that  country  were  being  struck  down  by  pestilence.  It  has  been 
correctly  styled  "the  very  poetry  of  military  despair." 


MELODIOUS  READING  319 

Then  stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

'Tis  here  the  revival  lies ; 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Time  was  when  we  laughed  at  others ; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then. 
Ha !  Ha !  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No!     Stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

The  thoughtless  is  here  the  wise; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink; 
We'll  fall  'mid  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
Come !    Stand  to  your  glasses ! — steady ! 

'Tis  this  that  the  respite  buys ; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  can  sting  no  more? 
No!     Stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betray'd  by  the  land  we  find, 
When  the  brightest  are  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  are  left  behind. 
Stand ! — stand  to  your  glasses  ! — steady ! 

'Tis  all  we  have  left  to  prize; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already : 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  TO  READ  POETRY 

In  order  to  avoid  the  "singsong"  habit,  common  to  so  many 
while  reading  poetry,  let  us  remember  to  make  but  a  very 
delicate  pause  at  the  end  of  each  line.  Of  course,  if  the  sense 
requires  a  decided  pause,  one  should  not  fail  to  make  it. 
Browning's  "My  Star"  is  a  splendid  example  of  where  but  a 
very  slight  swelling  of  the  voice  is  necessary  to  indicate  the 
end  of  each  line. 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled : 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 

To  illustrate  the  contrary  to  this  let  us  refer  to  a  few  lines 
from  Riley's  "The  South  Wind  and  the  Sun,"  noting  that  the 
poise  of  the  tone  is  considerably  longer  at  the  end  of  each  line. 

And  the  humming-bird  that  hung 
Like  a  jewel  up  among 
The  tilted  honeysuckle-horns, 
They  mesmerized  and  swung 
320 


HOW  TO  READ  POETRY  321 

In  the  palpitating  air, 
Drowsed  with  odors  strange  and  rare, 
And,  with  whispered  laughter,  slipped  away 
And  left  him  hanging  there. 

We  can  hardly  overestimate  the  value  of  a  careful  study  of 
the  lyric  to  the  student  of  expressive  speech.  It  demands 
superior  powers  to  render  a  lyric  adequately.  Bertha  Kuntz 
Baker,  the  great  American  reader,  thus  suggestively  writes  on 
this  subject: 

To  clarify  the  diction,  go  over  the  poem,  word  by  word,  conform 
each  word  carefully,  repeatedly  to  your  ideal  of  that  word,  giving  the 
vowel  its  fullest  possible  value,  tucking  in  the  consonants  as  clear, 
light  envelopes  around  and  between  the  vowels. 

PISGAH-SIGHT 
By  Robert  Browning 

Good,  to  forgive: 

Best,  to  forget! 

Living,  we  fret; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  pinion! 

Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  theel 

Wander  at  will, 

Day  after  day, — 

Wander  away, 
Wandering  still — 
Soul  that  canst  soar! 

Body  may  slumber: 

Body  shall  cumber 
Soul-flight  no  more. 

Waft  of  soul's  wing! 

What  lies  above? 

Sunshine  and  Love, 
Skyblue  and  Spring ! 


322  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Body  hides — where? 

Ferns  of  all  feather, 

Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care! 

DAWN 
By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

An  angel,  robed  In  spotless  white, 
Bent  down  and  kissed  the  sleeping  night. 
Night  woke  to  blush :  the  sprite  was  gone ; 
Men  saw  the  blush  and  called  it  Dawn. 

FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 
By  Lord  Tennyson 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

THE  WORKER'S  GUERDON 
By  Frank  Preston  Smart 

Expect  nor  fame,  nor  gold,  nor  any  praise— 
The  world  puts  not  its  meed  in  every  hand; 

Work  on  and  still  be  thankful  all  thy  days 
If  even  one  shall  see  and  understand! 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 

By  William  Wordsworth 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 

So  was  it  when  my  l'fe  began; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  1 


HOW  TO  READ  POETRY  323 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

When  we  think  of  melody  in  speech,  we  immediately  think 
of  the  lyric.  In  form  and  in  spirit  it  approaches  nearest  to- 
wards music,  for  it  is  "emotion  all  compact."  When  we  have 
stimulated  within  us  a  noble  emotion,  we  begin  at  once  to  re- 
spond in  some  rhythmic  action,  a  beat  of  our  foot,  sway  of  the 
body,  or  humming  in  a  tuneful  way.  There  is  melody  in  prose 
as  well  as  in  poetry,  only  it  is  not  so  pronounced.  Lincoln's 
"Gettysburg  Address"  is  a  splendid  example  of  prose-poetry. 
We  are  under  obligation  to  James  Raymond  Perry  in  the 
North  American  Review  for  metrically  dividing  this  oration : 

Four  score  and  seven  years  ago 

Our  fathers  brought  forth  upon  this  continent 

A  new  nation  conceived  in  liberty 

And  dedicated  to  the  proposition 

That  all  men  are  created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war, 

Testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation 

So  conceived  and  so  dedicated 

Can  long  endure.     We  are  met 

On  a  great  battle  field  of  that  war. 

We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of 

That  field  as  a  final  resting  place 

For  those  who  here  gave  their  lives 

That  this  nation  might  live. 

It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 

That  we  should  do  this 

But  in  a  larger  sense 

We  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate, 

We  cannot  hallow  this  ground.     The  brave  men, 

Living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here, 

Have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power 

To  add  or  detract.    The  world  will  little  note 

Nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here, 

But  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here. 


324  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated  here 
To  the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here 
Have  thus  far  so  nobly  advanced. 
It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated 
To  the  great  task  remaining  before  us ; 
That  from  these  honored  dead  we  take 
Increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which 
They  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion; 
That  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead 
Shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that  this  nation, 
Under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom; 
And  that  the  government  of  the  people, 
By  the  people,  and  for  the  people, 
Shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

Channing's  "Symphony"  is  another  interesting  illustration 
of  musical  prose: 

To  live  content  with  small  means,  to  seek  elegance  rather  than 
luxury,  and  refinement  rather  than  fashion;  to  be  worthy,  not  respect- 
able; and  wealthy,  not  rich;  to  study  hard,  think  quietly,  talk  gently, 
act  frankly;  to  listen  to  stars  and  birds,  babes  and  sages,  with  open 
heart;  to  bear  all  cheerfully,  do  all  bravely,  await  occasions,  hurry 
never;  in  a  word,  to  let  the  spiritual,  unbidden  and  unconscious,  grow 
up  through  the  common.     This  is  to  be  my  symphony. 

The  most  striking  example  of  all  is  the  following  excerpt 
taken  from  Ingersoll's  oration  entitled  "A  Vision  of  War" : 

These  heroes  are  dead.  They  died  for  liberty — they  died  for  us. 
They  are  at  rest.  They  sleep  in  the  land  they  made  free,  under  the 
flag  they  rendered  stainless,  under  the  solemn  pines,  the  sad  hemlocks, 
the  tearful  willows,  and  the  embracing  vines.  They  sleep  beneath  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  careless  alike  of  sunshine  or  of  storm,  each  in 
the  windowless  palace  of  Rest.  Earth  may  run  red  with  other  wars : 
they  are  at  peace.  In  the  midst  of  battle,  in  the  roar  of  conflict,  they 
found  the  serenity  of  death.  I  have  one  sentiment  for  soldiers  living 
and  dead:    Cheers  for  the  living;  tears  for  the  dead. 


POETICAL  SELECTIONS 

Colloquial 

Humorous 

Humorous  Dialect 

Pathetic 

Dramatic 

Sublime 

Lyric 

Poetry  is  the  highest,  most  beautiful  and  perfect  verbal  expression 
of  thought  allowed  to  man.  The  higher  the  poetry  the  more  is  it 
permeated  with  elevating  human  emotion. 


COLLOQUIAL  SELECTIONS 
IN  POETRY 

THE  PESSIMIST 
By  Ben  King 

Nothing  to  do  but  work, 

Nothing  to  eat  but  food, 
Nothing  to  wear  but  clothes 

To  keep  one  from  going  nude. 

Nothing  to  breathe  but  air; 

Quick  as  a  flash  'tis  gone; 
Nowhere  to  fall  but  off, 

Nowhere  to  stand  but  on. 

Nothing  to  comb  but  hair, 
Nowhere  to  sleep  but  in  bed, 

Nothing  to  weep  but  tears, 
Nothing  to  bury  but  dead. 

Nothing  to  sing  but  songs, 

Ah,  well,  alasl  alack! 
Nowhere  to  go  but  out, 

Nowhere  to  come  but  back. 

Nothing  to  see  but  sights, 
Nothing  to  quench  but  thirst, 

Nothing  to  have  but  what  we've  got ; 
Thus  through  life  we  are  cursed, 
327 


328  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Nothing  to  strike  but  a  gait ; 

Everything  moves  that  goes. 
Nothing  at  all  but  common  sense 

Can  ever  withstand  these  woes. 

THE  RIVALS  \/ 

By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

'Twas  three  an*  thirty  year  ago, 
When  I  was  ruther  young,  you  know, 
I  had  my  last  an'  only  fight 
About  a  gal  one  summer  night. 
'Twas  me  an'  Zekel  Johnson;  Zeke 
'N'  me  'd  be'n  spattin'  'bout  a  week, 
Each  of  us  tryin*  his  best  to  show 
That  he  was  Liza  Jones's  beau. 
We  couldn't  neither  prove  the  thing, 
Fur  she  was  fur  too  sharp  to  fling 
One  over  fur  the  other  one 
An'  by  so  doin'  stop  the  fun 
That  we  chaps  didn't  have  the  sense 
To  see  she  got  at  our  expense. 
But  that's  the  way  a  feller  does, 
Fur  boys  is  fools  an'  alius  was; 
An'  when  they's  females  in  the  game 
I  reckon  men's  about  the  same. 
Well,  Zeke  an'  me  went  on  that  way 
An'  fussed  an'  quarreled  day  by  day; 
While  Liza,  mindin'  not  the  fuss, 
Jest  kep'  a-goin'  with  both  of  us, 
Tell  we  pore  chaps,  that's  Zeke  an'  me, 
Was  jest  plum  mad  with  jealousy. 
Well,  fur  a  time  we  kep'  our  places, 
An'  only  showed  by  frownin'  faces 
An'  looks  'at  well  our  meanin'  boded 
How  full  o'  fight  we  both  was  loaded. 
At  last  it  come,  the  thing  broke  out, 
An'  this  is  how  it  come  about. 
One  night  ('twas  fair,  you'll  all  agree) 
I  got  Eliza's  company, 


COLLOQUIAL  329 

An'  leavin'  Zekel  in  the  lurch, 

Went  trottin'  off  with  her  to  church. 

An'  jest  as  we  had  took  our  seat, 

(Eliza  lookin'  fair  an'  sweet), 

Why,  I  jest  couldn't  help  but  grin 

When  Zekel  come  a-bouncin'  in 

As  furious  as  the  law  allows. 

He'd  jest  be'n  up  to  Liza's  house, 

To  find  her  gone,  then  come  to  church 

To  have  this  end  put  to  his  search. 

I  guess  I  laffed  that  meetin'  through, 

An'  not  a  mortal  word  I  knew 

Of  what  the  preacher  preached  er  read 

Er  what  the  choir  sung  er  said. 

Fur  every  time  I'd  turn  my  head 

I  couldn't  skeercely  help  but  see 

'At  Zekel  had  his  eye  on  me. 

An'  he  'ud  sort  o'  turn  an'  twist 

An'  grind  his  teeth  an'  shake  his  fist. 

I  laughed,  fur  la!  the  hull  church  seen  us, 

An'  knowed  that  suthin'  was  between  us. 

Well,  meetin'  out,  we  started  hum, 

I  sorter  feelin'  what  would  come. 

We'd  jest  got  out,  when  up  stepped  Zeke, 

An'  said,  "Scuse  me,  I'd  like  to  speak 

To  you  a  minute."    "Cert,"  said  I — 

A-nudgin'  Liza  on  the  sly 

An'  laughin'  in  my  sleeve  with  glee, 

I  asked  her,  please,  to  pardon  me. 

We  walked  away  a  step  er  two, 

Jest  to  git  out  o'  Liza's  view, 

An'  then  Zeke  said,  "I  want  to  know 

Ef  you  think  you're  Eliza's  beau,     ^ 

An'  'at  I'm  goin'  to  let  her  go  "** 

Hum  with  sich  a  chap  as  you?" 

An'  I  said  bold,  "You  bet  I  do." 

Then  Zekel,  sneerin',  said  'at  he 

Didn't  want  to  hender  me. 

But  then  he  'lowed  the  gal  was  his 

An'  'at  he  guessed  he  knowed  his  biz, 

An'  wasn't  feared  o'  all  my  kin 


330  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

With  all  my  friends  an'  chums  throwed  in. 
Some  other  things  he  mentioned  there 
That  no  born  man  could  no  ways  bear 
Er  think  o'  ca'mly  tryin'  to  stan' 
Ef  Zeke  had  be'n  the  bigges'  man 
In  town,  an'  not  the  leanest  runt 
'At  time  an'  labor  ever  stunt. 
An'  so  I  let  my  fist  go  "bim." 
I  thought  I'd  mos'  nigh  finished  him. 
But  Zekel  didn't  take  it  so. 
He  jest  ducked  down  an'  dodged  my  blow 
An'  then  come  back  at  me  so  hard, 
I  guess  I  must  'a'  hurt  the  yard, 
Er  spilet  the  grass  plot  where  I  fell, 
An'  sakes  alive  it  hurt  me ;  well, 
It  wouldn't  be'n  so  bad  you  see, 
But  he  jest  kep'  a-hittin'  me. 
An'  I  hit  back  an'  kicked  an'  pawed, 
But  't  seemed  'twas  mostly  air  I  clawed, 
While  Zekel  used  his  science  well 
A-makin'  every  motion  tell. 
He  punched  an'  hit,  why,  goodness  lands, 
Seemed  like  he  had  a  dozen  hands. 
Well,  afterwhile,  they  stopped  the  fuss, 
An'  some  one  kindly  parted  us. 
All  beat  an'  cuffed  an'  clawed  an'  scratched, 
An'  needin'  both  our  faces  patched, 
Each  started  hum  a  different  way; 
An'  what  o'  Liza,  do  you  say, 
Why,  Liza — little  humbug — darn  her, 
Why,  she'd  gone  home  with  Hiram  Turner. 
— Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  special 
arrangement. 

THE  FIRST  FURROW 

By  James  J.  Montague 

Don't  you  ever  feel  a  yearnin',  'long  about  this  time  o'  year, 
For  a  robin's  song  to  tell  you  that  the  summer  time  is  near? 


COLLOQUIAL  331 

Don't  you  ever  sort  o'  hanker  for  the  blackbird's  whistlin'  call, 
Echoin'  through  the  hillside  orchard,  where  the  blossoms  used  to  fall? 
Don't  you  wish  that  you  were  out  there,  breathin'  in  the  April  air, 
Full  o'  glad  an'  careless  boyhood,  an'  with  strength  an'  health  to  spare? 
Don't  it  hurt  you  to  remember,  when  the  springtime  comes  around, 
How  the  first,  long,  rollin'  furrow  used  to  wake  the  sleepy  ground? 

How'd  you  like  to  take  the  children,  born  to  dirty  city  streets, 

Out  to  where  the  brook  goes  pulsin'  when  the  heart  o'  nature  beats? 

How'd  you  like  to  watch  'em  wonder  at  the  boomin'  of  the  bees, 

Or  to  see  'em  dodge  the  petals  that  are  snowin'  from  the  trees? 

How'd  you  like  to  see  their  faces  catch  the  color  o'  the  rose, 

As  they  raced  across  the  meadow  where  the  earliest  crocus  grows? 

Wouldn't  it  be  joy  to  watch  'em  follow  on  behind  the  plow, 

As  it  cut  the  first  brown  furrow,  like  it's  doin'  out  there  now? 

SUNSHINE 
By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

Some  people  have  the  sunshine, 

While  others  have  the  rain; 
But  God  don't  change  the  weather 

Because  the  folks  complain. 
Don't  waste  your  time  in  grumbling, 

Nor  wrinkle  up  your  brow; 
Some  other  soul  has  trouble, 

Most  likely  has  it  now. 

When  nature  lies  in  shadow, 

On  damp  and  cloudy  days, 
Don't  blame  the  sun,  good  people, 

But  loan  a  few  bright  rays. 
The  sun  is  always  shining 

Above  the  misty  shroud, 
And  if  your  world  be  murky, 

The  fault  lies  in  the  cloud. 

Take  sunshine  to  your  neighbor, 

In  all  you  do  and  say; 
Have  sunshine  in  your  labor, 

And  sunshine  in  your  play. 


332  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Where'er  the  storm-cloud  lowers, 

Take  in  the  sunlight  glow, 
And  Heaven  will  show  what  flowers 
From  seeds  of  kindness  grow. 
— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


"CICELY" 

alkali  station 

By  Bret  Harte 

Cicely  says  you're  a  poet :  maybe ;  I  ain't  much  on  rhyme : 
I  reckon  you'd  give  me  a  hundred,  and  beat  me  every  time. 
Poetry  1 — that's  the  way  some  chaps  puts  up  an  idee, 
But  I  takes  mine  "straight  without  sugar,"  and  that's  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  me. 

Poetry! — just  look  round  you, — alkali,  rock,  and  sage; 

Sage-brush,  rock,  and  alkali ;  ain't  it  a  pretty  page  1 

Sun  in  the  east  at  mornin',  sun  in  the  west  at  night, 

And  the  shadow  of  this  'yer  station  the  on'y  thing  moves  in  sight. 

Poetry! — Well  now — Polly!     Polly  run  to  your  mam; 
Run  right  away,  my  pooty!     By  by!  Ain't  she  a  lamb? 
Poetry! — that  reminds  me  o'  suthin'  right  in  that  suit: 
Jest  shet  that  door  thar,  will  yer? — for  Cicely's  ears  is  cute. 

Ye  noticed  Polly, — the  baby?    A  month  afore  she  was  born, 
Cicely — my  old  woman — was  moody-like  and  forlorn; 
Out  of  her  head  and  crazy,  and  talked  of  flowers  and  trees; 
Family  man  yourself,  sir?     Well,  you  know  what  a  woman  be's. 

Narvous  she  was,  and  restless, — said  that  she  "couldn't  stay," 
Stay, — and  the  nearest  woman  seventeen  miles  away. 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he  would  be  on  hand, 
And  I  kinder  stuck  by  the  shanty,  and  fenced  in  that  bit  o'  land. 


COLLOQUIAL  333 

One  night, — the  tenth  of  October, — I  woke  with  a  chill  and  fright, 

For  the  door  it  was  standing  open,  and  Cicely  warn't  in  sight, 

But  a  note  was  pinned  on  the  blanket,  which  said  that  she  "couldn't 

stay," 
But  had  gone  to  visit  her  neighbor, — seventeen  miles  away. 

When  and  how  she  stampeded,  I  didn't  wait  for  to  see, 

For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild  as  she: 

Running  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound  that  is  off  the  scent, 

For  there  warn't  no  track  in  the  darkness  to  tell  me  the  way  she  went. 

I've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kem  to  this  spot, — 
Lost  on  the  plains  in  '50,  drowned  almost,  and  shot; 
But  out  on  this  alkali  desert,  a  hunting  a  crazy  wife, 
Was  ra'ly  as  on-satis-factory  as  anything  in  my  life. 

"Cicely !     Cicely !     Cicely !"  I  called,  and  I  held  my  breath, 

And  "Cicely!"  came  from  the  canyon, — and  all  was  as  still  as  death. 

And  "Cicely!     Cicely!     Cicely!"  came  from  the  rocks  below, 

And  jest  but  a  whisper  of  "Cicely!"  down  from  them  peaks  of  snow. 

I  ain't  what  you  call  religious, — but  I  jest  looked  up  to  the  sky, 
And — this  'yer's  to  what  I'm  coming,  and  maybe  ye  think  I  lie : 
But  up  away  to  the  east'ard,  yaller  and  big  and  far, 
I  saw  of  a  suddent  rising  the  singlerist  kind  of  star. 

Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon  to  me: 
Yaller  and  big  and  dancing,  such  as  you  never  see : 
Big  and  yaller  and  dancing, — I  never  saw  such  a  star, 
And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I  went  for  it  then  and 
thar. 

Over  the  brush  and  bowlders  I  stumbled  and  pushed  ahead : 
Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wharever  it  led. 
It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  suddent  and  peart  and  nigh, 
Out  of  the  yearth  afore  me  thar  riz  up  a  baby's  cry. 

Listen !  thar's  the  same  music ;  but  her  lungs  they  are  stronger  now 
Than  the   day   I   packed  her  and  her  mother, — I'm   derned   if  I  jest 

know  how. 
But  the  doctor  kem  the  next  minit,  and  the  joke  o'  the  whole  thing  is 
That  Cis.  never  knew  what  happened  from  that  very  night  to  this! 


334  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  Cicely  says  you're  a  poet,  and  maybe  you  might,  some  day, 
Jest  sling  her  a  rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born  in  a  curious  way, 
And  see  what  she  says;  but,  old  fellow,' when  you  speak  of  the  star, 

don't  tell 
As  how  'twas  the  doctor's  lantern, — for  maybe  'twon't  sound  so  well. 

— Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  used  by  their 
kind  permission. 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 

By  Alice  Cary 

O  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 
Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw? 
Ay?    Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown, — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 

Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels, — cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around, — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound) — 
These  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide, — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 

And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush : 
Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  selfsame  way, 

Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 


COLLOQUIAL  335 

Listen  closer.    When  you  have  done 
With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 

A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 

Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me ; 

Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 

The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 

The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while! — 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words: 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,— 

She  is  my  mother:  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir :  one  like  me, — 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise: 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now, — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore,— 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 
Ah,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 
With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck; 
I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 
The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee: 
That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea. 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn  leaves  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 

Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  far  and  still, — 

Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top, 


336  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

All  of  a  tremble,  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star 

That  we  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 

Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 

By  the  fork  of  a  tall,  red  mulberry  tree, 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax-field  grew, — 

Dead  at  the  top — just  one  branch  full 

Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 

Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 

In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day: — 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs,— 
The  other,  a  bird  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat: 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

ONE,  TWO,  THREE 

By  Henry  C.  Bunner 

(  • 
It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  who  was  half-past  three, 

And  the  way  that  they  played  together 

Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  couldn't  go  running  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 
With  a  thin  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple  tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I'll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  hide-and-go-seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 


COLLOQUIAL  337 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 

On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 
And  he'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 

In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three. 

"You  are  in  the  china  closet!" 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee. ' 
It  wasn't  the  china  closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"You  are  up  in  papa's  big  bedroom, 

In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key!" 
And  she  said :     "You  are  warm  and  warmer ; 

But  you're  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  Mamma's  things  used  to  be, 
So  it  must  be  the  clothespress,  Gran'ma!" 

And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 

That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 
And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 

With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 

Right  under  the  maple  tree — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  a  lame  little  knee; 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 

RECIPROCITY 
By  H.  Bedford-Jones 

Would  you  have  men  play  square  with  you, 

Play  fair  with  you,  and  bear  with  you 
In  all  the  little  weaknesses  so  easy  to  condemn? 

Then  simply  try  to  do  the  same — 

Hold  up  your  head  and  play  the  game, 

And  when  the  others  are  to  blame 
Be  sure  to  bear  with  them ! 


338  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Would  you  have  men,  when  new  to  you, 

Be  true  to  you  and  do  to  you 
The  things  that  faith  and  brother-love  and  nothing  else  impel  ? 

Then  give  them  faith  and  brother-love 

And  set  sincerity  above 

All  other  things — and  it  will  prove 
That  you  have  builded  well! 

THE  YOUNG  TRAMP 
By  Chas.  F.  Adams 

Hello,  thar,  stranger !     Whar  yer  f rum  ? 
Come  in  and  make  yerself  ter  hum ! 
We're  common  folks,  ain't  much  on  style; 
Come  in  and  stop  a  little  while; 
'Twon't  do  no  harm  ter  rest  yer  some. 

Youngster,  yer  pale,  and  don't  look  well! 
What,  way  from  Bosting?    Naow,  dew  tell! 
Why,  that's  a  hundred  mile  or  so; 
What  started  yer,  I'd  like  ter  know, 
On  sich  a  tramp ;  got  goods  ter  sell  ? 

No  home,  no  friends  ?    Naow  that's  too  bad ! 
Wall,  cheer  up,  boy,  and  don't  be  sad, — 
Wife,  see  what  yer  can  find  ter  eat, 
And  put  the  coffee  on  ter  heat, — 
We'll  fix  yer  up  all  right,  my  lad. 

Willing  ter  work,  can't  git  a  job, 

And  not  a  penny  in  yer  fob? 

Wall,  naow,  that's  rough,  I  dew  declare! 

What,  tears?     Come,  youngster,  I  can't  bear 

Ter  see  yer  take  on  so,  and  sob. 

How  came  yer  so  bad  off,  my  son? 

Father  was  killed?     'Sho';  whar?     Bull  Run? 

Why,  I  was  in  that  scrimmage,  lad, 

And  got  used  up,  too,  pretty  bad ; 

I  shan't  forgit  old  'sixty-one! 


COLLOQUIAL  339 

So  yer  were  left  in  Bosting,  hey! 
A  baby  when  he  went  away? 
Those  Bosting  boys  were  plucky,  wife, 
Yer  know  one  of  'em  saved  my  life, 
Else  I  would  not  be  here  to-day. 

'Twas  when  the  "Black  Horse  Cavalcade" 
Swept  down  on  our  small  brigade, 
I  got  the  shot  that  made  me  lame, 
When  down  on  me  a  trooper  came, 
And  this  'ere  chap  struck  up  his  blade. 

Poor  feller!     He  was  stricken  dead; 
The  trooper's  sabre  cleaved  his  head. 
Joe  Billings  was  my  comrade's  name, 
He  was  a  Bosting  boy,  and  game ! 
I  almost  wished  I'd  died,  instead. 

Why,  lad!  what  makes  yer  tremble  so? 
Your  father!  what,  my  comrade  Joe? 
And  you  his  son?     Come  ter  my  heart. 
My  home  is  yours;  I'll  try  in  part, 
Ter  pay  his  boy  the  debt  I  owe. 

HULLO ! 

By  Sam  Walter  Foss 

When  you  see  a  man  in  woe, 
Walk  straight  up  and  say,  "Hullo!" 
Say  "Hullo!"  and  "How  d'ye  do? 
How's  the  world  been  using  you?" 
Slap  the  fellow  on  his  back, 
Bring  your  hand  down  with  a  whack! 
Waltz  straight  up  and  don't  go  slow, 
Shake  his  hand  and  say  "Hullo !" 

Is  he  clothed  in  rags?     Oh,  ho. 
Walk  straight  up  and  say  "Hullo  1" 
Rags  are  but  a  cotton  roll 
Just  for  wrapping  up  a  soul ; 
And  a  soul  is  worth  a  true 
Hale  and  hearty  "How  d've  do?" 


340  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Don't  wait  for  the  crowd  to  go. 
Walk  straight  up  and  say  "Hullo  1" 

When  big  vessels  meet,  they  say, 
They  salute  and  sail  away; 
Just  the  same  as  you  and  me, 
Lonely  ships  upon  the  sea, 
Each  one  sailing  his  own  jog 
For  a  port  beyond  the  fog; 
Let  your  speaking  trumpet  blow, 
Lift  your  horn  and  cry,  "Hullo  1" 

Say  "Hullo  1"  and  "How  d'ye  do?" 

Other  folks  are  good  as  you. 

When  you  leave  your  house  of  clay, 

Wandering  in  the  far  away, 

When  you  travel  through  the  strange 

Country  far  beyond  the  range, 

Then  the  souls  you've  cheered  will  know 

Who  you  be,  and  say  "Hullo  1" 

COLUMBUS 
By  Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

How  in  heaven's  name  did  Columbus  get  over, 

Is  a  pure  wonder  to  me,  I  protest, 
Cabot,  and  Raleigh,  too,  that  well-read  rover, 
Frobisher,  Dampier,  Drake,  and  the  rest; 

Bad  enough  all  the  same, 

For  them  that  after  came; 

But  in  great,  heaven's  name, 

How  he  should  think 

That  on  the  other  brink 
Of  this  wild  waste,  terra  firma  should  be, 
Is  a  pure  wonder,  I  must  say,  to  me. 

How  a  man  should  ever  hope  to  get  thither, 
E'en  if  he  knew  that  there  was  another  side; 

But  to  suppose  he  should  come  any  whither, 
Sailing  straight  on  into  chaos  untried, 


COLLOQUIAL  341 

In  spite  of  the  motion, 

Across  the  whole  ocean, 

To  stick  to  the  notion 

That  in  some  nook  or  bend 

Of  a  sea  without  end, 
He  should  find  North  and  South  America, 
Was  a  pure  madness,  indeed,  I  must  say. 

What  if  wise  men  had,  as  far  back  as  Ptolemy, 

Judged  that  the  earth  like  an  orange  was  round, 
•None  of  them  ever  said,  Come  along,  follow  me, 
Sail  to  the  West,  and  the  East  will  be  found. 

Many  a  day  before 

Ever  they'd  come  ashore 

Sadder  and  wiser  men, 

They'd  have  turned  back  again; 
And  that  he  did  not,  but  did  cross  the  sea, 
Is  a  pure  wonder,  I  must  say,  to  me. 

—Copyright  by  Macmillan  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  arrange- 
ment. 

THE  USUAL  WAY 

Anonymous 

There  was  once  a  little  man,  and  his  rod  and  line  he  took, 
For  he  said,  "I'll  go  a-fishing  in  the  neighboring  brook." 
And  it  chanced  a  little  maiden  was  walking  out  that  day, 
And  they  met — in  the  usual  way. 

Then  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  an  hour  or  two  went  by, 
But  still  upon  the  grassy  brink  his  rod  and  line  did  lie;. 
"I  thought,"  she  shyly  whispered,  "you'd  be  fishing  all  the  dayl" 
And  he  was — in  the  usual  way. 

So  he  gravely  took  his  rod  in  hand  and  threw  the  line  about, 
But  the  fish  perceived  distinctly  he  was  not  looking  out; 
And  he  said,  "Sweetheart,  I  love  you,"  but  she  said  she  could  not  stay, 
But  she  did — in  the  usual  way. 


342  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  the  stars  came  out  above  them,  and  she  gave  a  little  sigh 
As  they  watched  the  silver  ripples  like  the  moments  running  by; 
"We  must  say  good-by,"  she  whispered  by  the  alders  old  and  gray. 
And  they  did — in  the  usual  way. 

And  day  by  day  beside  the  stream,  they  wandered  to  and  fro, 
And  day  by  day  the  fishes  swam  securely  down  below, 
Till  this  little  story  ended,  as  such  little  stories  may, 
Very  much — in  the  usual  way. 

And  now  that  they  are  married,  do  they  always  bill  and  coo? 
Do  they  never  fret  and  quarrel,  like  other  couples  do? 
Does  he  cherish  her  and  love  her?     Does  she  honor  and  obey? 
Well,  they  do — in  the  usual  way. 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 

LITTLE  MISS  STUDY  AND  LITTLE  MISS  PLAY 

By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

Little  Miss  Study  and  little  Miss  Play, 
Each  came  to  the  school  from  an  opposite  way; 
While  little  Miss  Study  could  always  recite, 
This  little  Miss  Play  hardly  ever  was  right; 
For  little  Miss  Study  found  she  could  do  more 
By  learning  her  lessons  the  evening  before; 
But,  fond  of  a  frolic,  this  little  Miss  Play 
Would  put  off  her  lessons  until  the  next  day. 
At  the  head  of  her  class  Miss  Study  was  put, 
While  little  Miss  Play  had  to  stay  at  the  foot! 
Thus  little  Miss  Study  and  little  Miss  Play 
Went  onward  through  life — in  an  opposite  way. 

— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 

A  SIMILAR  CASE 

Anonymous 

Jack,  I  hear  you've  gone  and  done  it, — 
Yes,  I  know ;  most  fellows  will ; 
Went  and  tried  it  once  myself,  sir, 
Though  you  see  I'm  single  still. 
And  you  met  her — did  you  tell  me — 
Down  at  Newport,  last  July, 
And  revived  to  ask  the  question 
At  a  soiree? — So  did  I. 
343 


344  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  suppose  you  left  the  ball-room, 

With  its  music  and  its  light; 

For  they  say  Love's  flame  is  brightest 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Well,  you  walked  along  together, 

Overhead,  the  starlit  sky; 

And  I'll  bet — old  man,  confess  it — 

You  were  frightened. — So  was  I. 

So  you  strolled  along  the  terrace, 
Saw  the  summer  moonlight  pour, 
All  its  radiance  on  the  waters, 
As  they  rippled  on  the  shore, 
Till  at  length  you  gathered  courage, 
,  When  you  saw  that  none  was  nigh — 
Did  you  draw  her  close  and  tell  her, 
That  you  loved  her? — So  did  I. 

Well,  I  needn't  ask  you  further, 
And  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  joy, 
Think  I'll  wander  down  and  see  you 
When  you're  married, — eh,  my  boy? 
When  the  honeymoon  is  over 
And  you're  settled  down,  we'll  try — 
What?    The  deuce  you  say  I    Rejected? 
You  rejected? — So  was  I. 


IRISH  CASTLES 
By  Fitz-James  O'Brien 

"Sweet  Norah,  come  here,  and  look  into  the  fire; 

Maybe  in  its  embers  good  luck  we  might  see; 
But  don't  come  too  near,  or  your  glances  so  shining, 

Will  put  it  clean  out,  like  the  sunbeams,  machree ! 

"Just  look  'twixt  the  sods,  where  so  brightly  they're  burning, 
There's  a  sweet  little  valley,  with  rivefs  and  trees, 

And  a  house  on  the  bank,  quite  as  big  as  the  squire's — 
Who  knows  but  some  day  we'll  have  something  like  these? 


HUMOROUS  345 

"And  now  there's  a  coach  and  four  galloping  horses, 

A  coachman  to  drive,  and  a  footman  behind ; 
That  betokens  some  day  we  will  keep  a  fine  carriage, 

And  dash  through  the  streets  with  the  speed  of  the  wind." 

As  Dermot  was  speaking,  the  rain  down  the  chimney, 
Soon  quenched  the  turf-fire  on  the  hollowed  hearth-stone: 

While  mansion  and  carriage,  in  smoke-wreaths  evanished, 
And  left  the  poor  dreamer  dejected  and  lone. 

Then  Norah  to  Dermot,  these  words  softly  whispered: 

"'Tis  better  to  strive  than  to  vainly  desire: 
And  our  little  hut  by  the  roadside  is  better 

Than  palace,  and  servants,  and  coach — in  the  fire!" 

'Tis  years  since  poor  Dermot  his  fortune  was  dreaming — 
Since  Norah's  sweet  counsel  effected  its  cure; 

For,  ever  since  then  hath  he  toiled  night  and  morning, 
And  now  his  snug  mansion  looks  down  on  the  Suir. 

THE  DEACON'S  DRIVE 

By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

Good  Deacon  Jones,  although  a  pious  man, 
Was  not  constructed  on  the  meager  plan; 
And  he  so  loved  the  Sabbath  day  of  rest, 
Of  all  the  seven  deemed  it  far  the  best ; 
Could  he  have  made  the  year's  allotment  o'er, 
He  would  have  put  in  many  rest-days  more. 
One  Sunday  morn,  on  sacred  matters  bent, 
With  his  good  wife,  to  church  the  deacon  went. 
And  since  there  was  no  fear  of  being  late, 
The  horse  slow  jogged  along  his  Sunday  gait. 
This  horse  he  got  by  trading  with  a  Jew, 
And  called  him  Moses, — nothing  else  would  do. 
He'd  been  a  race-horse  in  his  palmy  days, 
But  now  had  settled  down  to  pious  ways, — 
Save  now  and  then  backsliding  from  his  creed, 
When  overtempted  to  a  burst  of  speed. 


346  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Twas  early,  and  the  deacon's  wife  was  driving, 
While  from  the  book  the  deacon  hard  was  striving 
On  sacred  things  to  concentrate  his  mind — 
The  sound  of  clattering  hoofs  is  heard  behind ; 
Old  Mose  pricked  up  his  ears  and  sniffed  the  air; 
The  deacon  mused:    "Some  racers,  I  declare! 
Fast  horse,  fast  man,  fast  speeds  the  life  away, 
While  sluggish  blood  is  slow  to  disobey!" 
He  closed  the  book;  he'd  read  enough  of  p"salms — 
And,  looking  backward,  spat  upon  his  palms, 
Then  grabbed  the  sagging  reins:    "Land  sakes  alive! 
It's  late,  Jerushee,  guess  I'd  better  drive!" 

The  wife  suspects  there's  something  on  his  mind ; 
Adjusts  her  spectacles  and  looks  behind: 
"Pull  out,  good  Silas,  let  that  sinner  past 
Who  breaks  the  Sabbath  day  by  drivin'  fast! 
What  pretty  horses;  he's  some  city  chap; 
My,  how  he  drives;  he'll  meet  with  some  mishap! 
Be  quick  thar,  Silas ;  further  to  the  side ; 
He's  comin';  thank  the  Lord  the  road  is  wide! 
Jes'  look  at  Mose ;  if  he  ain't  in  f er  war ! 
Say,  Silas,  what  on  earth  you  bracin'  for? 
Old  man,  have  you  forgot  what  day  it  is?" 
"Git  up  thar,  Mose!    Jerushee,  mind  yer  biz!" 
"Upon  my  soul,  look  how  that  nag's  a-pacin'; 
Why,  Silas,  dear,  I  do  believe  you're  racin'! 
Land  sakes  alive,  what  will  the  people  say? 
Good  Deacon  Jones  a-racin',  Sabbath  day !" 

"Jerushee,  now  you  hold  yer  pious  tongue, 

And  save  yer  voice  until  the  hymns  are  sung! 

'Make  haste  unto  the  Lord;'  that's  the  command; 

We're  bound  fer  church — I  trust  you  understand!" 

"But  goin'  to  church,  good  Silas,  racin'  so, 

Will  bring  us  into  heaven  mighty  slow!" 

"Hush  up,  Jerushee,  else  you'll  make  us  late; 

Gelong  thar,  Moses — strike  yer  winnin'  gait! 

God  gave  him  speed  and  now's  his  time  to  show  it; 

If  that's  a  sin,  I  never  want  to  know  it." 


HUMOROUS  347 

A  loving  wife  to  acquiescence  used, 

Jerusha  soon  begins  to  get  enthused. 

Said  she:     "Don't  leave  the  church  folk  disappointed, 

Nor  let  the  ungodly  beat  the  Lord's  anointed  1" 

"You're  right,  Jerushee,  thar  yer  head  is  level, 

In  life's  long  race  the  saint  must  beat  the  devil; 

Though  on  this  Hebrew  horse  depend  we  must 

To  keep  the  Christian  from  the  sinner's  dust. 

That's  right,  Jerushee,  give  old  Mose  the  birch, 

Fer  here's  a  race:    The  world  ag'in'  the  church; 

Both  Testaments  are  at  it  fer  their  lives — 

The  Old  one  pacin'  while  the  New  one  drives; 

And  Satan's  found  at  last  all  he  can  do 

To  tackle  both  the  Gentile  and  the  Jew." 

The  stranger's  horses  come  at  such  a  pace 

They  dash  ahead  as  if  to  take  the  race. 

"The  jig  is  up,  Jerushee;  guess  he'll  beat; 

He's  in  the  lead,  and  Mose  is  off  his  feet." 

"What  talk  is  that?     Now,  Silas,  don't  you  scoff; 

How  can  he  jig  if  all  his  feet  are  off? 

And  now  you  say  he's  struck  his  gait  at  last, 

I  feared  he'd  strike  on  suthin',  goin'  so  fast." 

The  stranger  cries :     "Come  on,  old  Sanctimony, 

Old  wife,  old  wagon,  and  old  rack-a-bony  1" 

Jerusha's  dander's  up;  Jerusha's  mad; 

She  grabs  her  bonnet  and  applies  the  gad. 

And  Mose  at  last  has  struck  his  old-time  speed; 

For  once  the  Jew  and  Gentile  are  agreed. 

Around  the  church  the  gathered  country  folk 

Observe :     "The  Sabbath  day  is  bein'  broke." 

With  eager  eye  and  half-averted  face, 

Though  some  condemn,  yet  all  observe  the  race. 

"Land  sakes !"  cries  one,  "I'll  bet  ye  ten  t'  tew 

It's  Deacon  Jones  a-drivin'  that  ar  Jew." 

"I  can't  bet  much,  but  here's  my  life  upon  it — 

That  thar's  Jerushee — I  know  her  by  the  bonnet  1" 

Along  the  dusty  road  the  horses  speed, 

And  inch  by  inch  old  Moses  takes  the  lead. 


348  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Jerusha  gets  excited,  now  she's  winning, 
And  all  her  former  anger  dies  a-grinning. 
"Come  on,  old  Disbelief,  old  Satan's  crony, 
Don't  lag  behind  on  any  ceremony! 
Take  my  advice:     Before  you  give  much  sass 
Jes*  turn  yer  horses  out  on  Sunday  grass." 

Old  Mose  had  forged  ahead  at  such  a  rate 
The  Deacon  couldn't  stop  him  at  the  gate ; 
The  more  he  pulled  the  faster  Mose  would  go; 
Jerusha  grabbed  one  line  and  hollered:     "Whoal" 
Which  swung  him  in ;  the  buggy  with  a  crash, 
Swinging  against  the  horse-block,  went  to  smash. 
The  pastor  said :     "I  hope  you  broke  no  bones, 
Although  you  broke  the  Sabbath,  Deacon  Jones." 
"Don't  blame  this  onto  Sile,"  Jerusha  said: 
"But  on  that  hoss ;  you  know  he's  Jewish  bred, 
An'  won't  do  nothin'  Saturday  but  rest; 
On  Sunday  he  breaks  loose  like  all  possessed. 
At  least  we're  here  and  safe,  therefore  rejoice, 
But  I  shall  sing  no  more,  I've  strained  my  voice !" 
"I  thought  'twould  break,"  they  heard  the  pastor  say, 
"It  has  been  cracked  for  many,  many  a  day." 
— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  RING 
By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

May  was  pretty,  plump  and  pretty,  and  with  such  a  lovely  soul 

That  a  smile  lit  up  her  features  like  a  mental  aureole. 

People  gazed  in  admiration — always  listened — when  she  talked 

Always  made  you  think  of  roses,  but  she  limped  whene'er  she  walked. 

Nothing  crippled,  nothing  shriveled,  nothing  of  the  withered  sort; 

Just  a  perfect  human  being,  save  one  leg  a  trifle  short ; 

As  though  nature  had  intended  her  the  rarest  of  her  kind 

But  fell  short  of  precious  matter  and  no  substitute  could  find. 

Fair  as  polished  alabaster  that  had  wakened  from  its  dream; 

But  so  modest  and  retiring  she  held  every  one's  esteem. 


HUMOROUS  349 

Though  her  imperfection  grieved  her  more  than  anybody  knew, 

Yet  her  life  was  like  the  heavens  when  the  stars  are  peeping  through. 

At  first  sight  of  her  you'd  fancy  as  you  blinked  your  startled  eyes 

You  had  chanced  upon  a  seraph  who  had  taken  human  guise: 

As  a  man  will  gaze  in  wonder  at  a  jewel  on  the  ground 

Ere  he  quite  believes  his  senses  that  a  treasure  had  been  found. 

Enter  handsome,  kindly  David:  comes  a  stranger  to  the  place, 

Searching  for  the  soul  of  beauty  hid  behind  a  maiden  face; 

Not  among  the  belles  of  fashion,  not  among  the  aimless  kind, 

Could  he  find  the  perfect  woman  he  had  pictured  in  his  mind. 

Thought  to  find  a  truer  sweetheart  in  some  pretty  village  lass; 

Find  his  lily  of  the  valley  in  the  higher  middle  class ; 

Out  among  the  quiet  people  where  his  riches  were  unknown, 

Some  fair  maid  whose  homely  virtues  would  appreciate  his  own. 

It  was  at  a  social  function  where  he  met  the  charming  May 

And  her  sister,  Belle,  the  elder,  quite  as  handsome  in  her  way. 

May  was  sunny,  sweet  and  gentle — Belle  was  haughty  and  austere; 

While  ambition  strode  beside  her  just  a  little  bit  too  near. 

As  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  David  played  the  friendly  role, 

As  contented  as  a  youngster  when  he's  at  a  sugar-bowl. 

David  laid  no  special  favor  upon  either  Belle  or  May, 

But  he  whispered  things  to  Cupid — told  him  all  he  had  to  say. 

Yet  he  played  the  gallant  nobly,  exercising  all  his  art: 

Hid  behind  the  cunning  Cupid  he  deployed  to  hide  his  heart. 

May  grew  ever  more  unselfish,  giving  way  to  Sister  Belle, 

Till  Dan  Cupid  felt  like  starting  in  a  raucous  college  yell. 

Belle  had  been  the  child  of  favor — May  the  daughter  of  regret; 

One  the  Mount  of  Delectation,  one  the  Mount  of  Olivet. 

That  a  man  preferred  her  sister  was  to  Belle  almost  absurd: 

She  took  everything  for  granted — simply  waiting  David's  word. 

Custom  bids  one  ask  the  parents — though  he  heed  not  what  they  say — 

If  a  lover  love  a  lover  love  will  get  her  anyway. 

So  when  David  sought  permission  he  was  just  a  bit  obscure — 

Which  was  laid  to  nervous  tension  such  as  lovers  must  endure. 

May  I  win  your  noblest  daughter?     Both  fond  parents  gave  consent; 

Thinking  Belle  the  one  intended — straight  to  her  the  father  went. 

Belle,  too  vain  to  hold  the  secret,  poured  it  in  the  ears  of  May: 

How  the  heart  grows  disappointed  when  a  hope  has  gone  astray. 

As  a  graduate  from  college,  David  had  excuse  for  staying, 

But  he  gave  the  pair  no  inkling  of  the  love-game  he  was  playing. 


350  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Through  the  summer  and  the  autumn  David  studied  well  his  art: 

Read  up  Cupid  on  devotion  and  the  psychics  of  the  heart. 

At  the  Church  on  Christmas  evening  David  played  the  Santa  Claus : 

Telling  stories  to  the  children;  gaining  laughter  and  applause; 

Handed  out  the  many  presents  till  the  tree  was  stripped  and  bare; 

Gave  to  Belle  a  jewel-sunburst  which  she  fastened  in  her  hair. 

With  no  special  gift  from  David,  May  was  getting  trouble-hearted, 

But  by  dint  of  constant  smiling  kept  the  tears  from  getting  started. 

In  the  midst  of  the  excitement  David  cast  off  his  disguise ; 

Gave  a  rousing  speech  of  greeting,  closing  up  with  this  surprise: 

"Friends,  I  have  an  extra  present,  'tis  the  last  one  on  the  tree, 

For  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty,  choice  of  all  the  world  to  me : 

One  with  that  angelic  nature,  Heaven  only  can  bestow ; 

But  with  just  enough  of  human  to  detain  her  here  below. 

I  have  read  her  secret  often  as  the  star  man  reads  the  skies, 

Till  the  horoscope  got  tangled  in  the  flashlight  of  her  eyes. 

With  a  love  beyond  endurance  and  a  wealth  beyond  control, 

I  have  come  to  claim  my  sweetheart  with  the  treasures  of  my  soul. 

As  a  symbol  of  devotion  I  have  brought  this  solitaire — 

For  my  heart  is  in  the  girdle  and  her  name  is  graven  there." 

All  are  thrilled  with  expectation;  every  neck  is  craned  to  see 

Who  possesses  all  these  virtues ;  whom  the  wonder  maid  can  be. 

Down  the  aisle  our  David  hastened — passing  Belle  upon  the  way, 

Till  he  paused  to  place  the  jewel  on  the  pretty  hand  of  May. 

With  her  bosom  over-flowing,  May  could  utter  not  a  word, 

But  her  eyes  and  lips  gave  answer  in  the  silence  David  heard. 

And  the  tear  that  sorrow  started  changing  quick  to  love's  employ, 

Trembled  on  her  heavy  lashes  like  a  messenger  of  joy. 

While  her  cheek  has  turned  to  crimson,  down  the  drop  of   rapture 

goes, 
Stopping  there  awhile  to  glisten  like  a  dewdrop  on  a  rose. 
Can  you  measure  love's  emotion  when  a  sorrow  turns  to  bliss, 
When  a  maid  whose  heart  is  broken  has  it  mended  with  a  kiss? 
It  is  said  the  first  known  lovers — and  I  think  they  do  it  yet, 
As  first  aid  in  pressing  cases,  used  their  arms  as  tourniquet. 
David  kissed  her  there  in  public,  and  he  hugged  her  all  he  could; 
May  had  half-way  hoped  he  wouldn't,  then  she  half-way  hoped   he 

would. 
Though  they  broke  a  social  custom,  none  was  there  to  make  ado, 
And  the  pastor's  benediction,  just  for  once,  was  just  for  two. 

— Copyright  by  author  and  used  by  his  kind  permission. 


HUMOROUS  351 

CUPID  SWALLOWED 

By  Leigh  Hunt 

T'other  day,  as  I  was  twining 
Roses  for  a  crown  to  dine  in, 
What,  of  all  things,  midst  the  heap, 
Should  I  light  on,  fast  asleep, 
But  the  little  desperate  elf, — 
The  tiny  traitor, — Love  himself  ! 
By  the  wings  I  pinched  him  up 
Like  a  bee,  and  in  a  cup 
Of  my  wine  I  plunged  and  sank  him, 
And  d'ye  think  I  did  ? — I  drank  him  ! 
Faith,  I  thought  him  dead.     Not  he! 
There  he  lives  with  ten- fold  glee; 
And  now  this  moment,  with  his  wings, 
I  feel  him  tickling  my  heart-strings. 

THE  VINEGAR  MAN 
By  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

The  crazy  old  Vinegar  Man  is   dead!     He  never  had  missed  a  day 

before ! 
Somebody  went  to  his  tumble-down  shed,  by  the  Haunted  House,  and 

forced  the  door. 
There  in  the  litter  of  his  pungent  pans,  the  murky  mess  of  his  mixing 

place, — 
Deep,  sticky  spiders  and  empty  cans — with  the  same  old  frown  on  his 

sour  old  face. 

"Vinegar- Vinegar- Vinegar  Man ! 
Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can! 
Pepper  for  a  tongue!     Pickle  for  a  nose! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and  vinegar  flows ! 
Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can! 
Ketch-up-and-chow-chow-and-Vinegar-Man!" 

Nothing  but  recipes  and  worthless  junk;  greasy  old  records  of  paid 
and  due; 

But,  down  in  the  depths  of  a  battered  old  trunk,  a  queer,  quaint  valen- 
tine torn  in  two — 


352  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Red  hearts  and  arrows,  and  silver  lace,  and  a  prim,  dim,  ladylike  script 

that  said — 
(Oh,  Vinegar  Man,  with  the  sour  old   face!) — "With  dearest  love, 

from  Ellen  to  Ned  1" 

"Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine! 
He  pickles  his  heart  in" — a  valentine! 
"Vinegar  for  blood!     Pepper  for  tongue! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and" — once  he  was  young  1 
"Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can!" 
"With  dearest  love" — to  the  Vinegar  Man ! 

Dingy  little  books  of  profit  and  loss  (died  about  Saturday,  so  they  say) 
And  a  queer,  quaint  valentine,  torn  across  .  .  .  torn,  but  it  never  was 

thrown  away! 
"With  dearest  love  from  Ellen  to  Ned"— "Old  Pepper  Tongue !    Pickles 

his  heart  in  brine!" 
The  Vinegar  Man  is  a  long  time  dead:  he   died  when  he  tore  his 

valentine. 
— Copyright  by  The  Century  Co.,  New  York,  and  used*  by  kind  per- 
mission of  author  and  publisher. 


HIS  FAVORITE 

She  was  a  dainty  little  maid, 
And  he  was  very  tall; 

They  gathered  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  by  the  garden  wall. 


"My  favorite  is  the  rose,"  said  she, 
"Do  you  prefer  the  pink? 

Perhaps  you're  fond  of  hollyhocks, 
You're  just  like  them,  I  think. 

"You're  rather  stiff  and  very  tall 
And  nod  your  head  just  so 

For  all  the  world  like  hollyhocks 
When  summer  breezes  blow. 


HUMOROUS  353 

"But  won't  you  tell  me  what 

Your  favorites  are? 
For  if  I  only  knew," 
(The  words  were  soft  and  low), 
"I'd  try  to  raise  a  few." 

"My  favorites,"  he  answered, 

"This  moment  I  can  see. 
I'm  looking  at  your  two  lips, — 

Will  you  raise  tulips  for  me?" 


THE  MOURNFUL  TALE  OF  THE  SNEE  ZEE 
FAMILEE 

By  A.  J.  Waterhouse 

There  was  a  little  yellow  man  whose  name  it  was  Ah  Cheu, 

And  every  time  that  Mongol  sneezed  he  told  his  name  to  you. 

This  funny  little  yellow  man  had  wedded  Tish  Ah  Chee, 

And  they,  when  certain  time  had  passed,  had  children  one,  two,  three. 

There  was  little  Ah  Cheu 

And  Tish  Ah  Tsu, 
And  the  baby  was  named  Ker  Chee, 

And  their  Uncle  Ker  Chawl 

And  his  wife  were  all 
Of  the  Snee  Zee  fam-i-lee, 
And  when  the  mamma  stood  and  called  her  children  from  the  door, 
You  would  laugh  and  laugh   for  an  hour  and  a  half  if  never  you 

laughed  before. 
"Ah  Cheu,"  she'd  say  in  her  feminine  way,  "bring  in  little  Ker  Chee, 
And  Tish  Ah  Tsu,  bring  him  in,  too,  to  the  Snee  Zee  fam-i-lee." 

Alas  and  alack !  but  my  voice  will  crack  as  the  mournful  tale  I  tell. 
To  that  sweet  little  band  in  the  Mongol  land  a  terrible  fate  befell. 
On  a  summer  day  in  a  sportive  way  they  called  one  another  all, 
And  over  and  o'er  the  names  they  bore  they  would  call  and  call  and 
call. 


354  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

They  called  Ah  Cheu 
And  Tish  Ah  Tsu 
And  the  baby  Ker  Chee,  Ker  Chee, 
And  their  Uncle  Ker  Chawl, 
They  called  them  all, 
Till  they're  dead  as  dead  can  be. 
Ah  Cheu  was  tough,  and  was  used  to  snuff,  so  he  lived  at  his  fate 

to  scoff, 
But  the  rest  are  dead,  as  I've  heretofore  said,  for  their  heads  they 

were  all  sneezed  off. 
And  this  is  the  tale  I  have  tried  to  wail  of  Ah  Cheu  and  his  little 

Ker  Chee 
And  Tish  Ah  Tsu  and  Ah  Chee,  too,  of  the  Snee  Zee  fam-i-lee. 

—From  "Lays  for  Little  Chaps." 

TO  A  USURPER 
By  Eugene  Field 

Aha!  a  traitor  in  the  camp, 

A  rebel  strangely  bold, — 
A  lisping,  laughing,  toddling  scamp, 

Not  more  than  four  years  old! 

To  think  that  I,  who've  ruled  alone 

So  proudly  in  the  past, 
Should  be  ejected  from  my  throne 

By  my  own  son  at  last! 

He  trots  his  treason  to  and  fro, 

As  only  babies  can, 
And  says  he'll  be  his  mamma's  beau 

When  he's  a  "Gweat,  big  man !" 

You  stingy  boy !  you've  always  had 

A  share  in  mamma's  heart; 
Would  you  begrudge  your  poor  old  dad 

The  tiniest  little  part? 

That  mamma,  I  regret  to  see, 

Inclines  to  take  your  part, — 
As  if  a  dual  monarchy 

Should  rule  her  gentle  heart! 


HUMOROUS  355 

But  when  the  years  of  youth  have  sped, 

The  bearded  man,  I  trow, 
Will  quite  forget  he  ever  said 

He'd  be  his  mamma's  beau. 

Renounce  your  treason,  little  son, 

Leave  mamma's  heart  to  me; 
For  there  will  come  another  one 

To  claim  your  loyalty. 

And  when  that  other  comes  to  you, 

God  grant  her  love  may  shine 
Through  all  your  life,  as  fair  and  true 

As  mamma's  does  through  mine! 

MY  RIVAL 
By  Rudyard  Kipling 

I  go  to  concert,  party,  ball — 

What  profit  is  in  these? 
I  sit  alone  against  the  wall 

And  strive  to  look  at  ease. 
The  incense  that  is  mine  by  right 

They  burn  before  her  shrine; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  she  is  forty-nine. 

I  cannot  check  my  girlish  blush, 

My  color  comes  and  goes; 
I  redden  to  my  finger-tips, 

And  sometimes  to  my  nose. 
And  she  is  white  where  white  should  be, 

And  red  where  red  should  shine. 
The  blush  that  flies  at  seventeen 

Is  fixed  at  forty-nine. 

I  wish  /  had  her  constant  cheek: 

I  wish  that  I  could  sing 
All  sorts  of  funny  little  songs, 

Not  quite  the  proper  thing. 


356  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I'm  very  gauche  and  very  shy, 
Her  jokes  aren't  in  my  line; 

And  worst  of  all,  I'm  seventeen 
While  she  is  forty-nine. 

The  young  men  come,  the  young  men  go, 

Each  pink  and  white  and  neat, 
She's  older  than  their  mothers,  but 

They  grovel  at  her  feet. 
They  walk  beside  her  rickshaw  wheelc— 

None  ever  walk  by  mine ; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  she  is  forty-nine. 

She  rides  with  half  a  dozen  men, 

(She  calls  them  "boys"  and  "mashers") 
I  trot  along  the  Mall  alone ; 

My  prettiest  frocks  and  sashes 
Don't  help  to  fill  my  programme-card, 

And  vainly  I  repine 
From  10  to  2  A  M.    Ah  me ! 

Would  I  were  forty-nine! 

She  calls  me  "darling,"  "pet,"  and  "dear," 

And  sweet  "retiring  maid." 
I'm  always  at  the  back,  I  know, 

She  puts  me  in  the  shade. 
She  introduces  me  to  men, 

"Cast"  lovers  I  opine, 
For  sixty  takes  to  seventeen, 

Nineteen  to  forty-nine. 

But  even  she  must  older  grow, 

And  end  her  dancing  days, 
She  can't  go  on  forever  so 

At  concerts,  balls  and  plays. 
One  ray  of  priceless  hope  I  see 

Before  my  footsteps  shine; 
Just  think,  that  she'll  be  eighty-one 

When  I  am  forty-nine. 


HUMOROUS  357 

LUCKY  JIM 
By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

a  forgotten  story  rewritten  for  reine  davies 

Two  jolly,  boyish  chums  were  we 
For  I  loved  Jim  and  Jim  loved  me. 
We  played  together — went  to  school, 
And  learned  the  selfsame  Golden  Rule. 
Jim  kissed  the  girls  and  so  did  I; 
But  Jim  got  married  on  the  sly. 
The  sweetest  girl  I  ever  knew 
Her  cheeks  like  roses  wet  with  dew. 
I  kept  my  secret  through  the  years 
And  tried  to  drown  my  love  in  tears. 
Though  oft  I  thought  of  suicide 
The  more  I  tried  the  less  I  died. 

Refrain : 
But  every  night  I  watched  the  sky 
To  see  the  moon  and  stars  go  by 
And  wondered  how  the  angels  fly 
And  thought  of  Jim — My  lucky  Jim — 
And  what  I'd  give  to  have  her  mine 
That  I  might  worship  at  her  shrine, 
But  she  was  his,  I'd  not  repine — 
Oh,  how  I  envied — envied  him. 

Some  secret  grief  Jim  sought  to  hide ; 
Grew  weak  and  weaker  till  he  died 
And  though  I  grieved  that  it  was  so, 
I  could  not  weep  to  see  him  go, 
For  joy,  not  sorrow,  filled  my  bowl: 
'Twas  mine  the  widow  to  console. 
Though  Jim  was  dead,  I  was  alive 
To  bring  sweet  honey  to  the  hive. 
I  married  her,  and  in  my  glee 
Was  happy  as  a  honey-bee : 
I  called  her  "kitten" — In  nine  days 
My  eyes  were  opened  to  her  ways, 


358  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Refrain : 
Now  every  night  I  watch  the  sky- 
To  see  the  moon  and  stars  go  by 
And  wonder  how  the  angels  fly 
And  think  of  Jim — my  lucky  Jim : 
Deep  lines  of  sorrow  mar  my  face 
As  time  goes  on  with  lagging  pace 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  take  his  place 
Oh,  how  I  envy — envy  him. 
— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


THE  WHISTLING  BOY 

By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

What  music  like  the  whistle  of  a  well-contented  boy, — 
That  rhythmic  exhalation  of  an  ever-present  joy? 
Though  the  fragmentary  cadence  of  a  plain,  untutored  art, 
'Tis  the  melody  of  childhood,  'tis  a  psalm  from  put  the  heart. 
You  will  never  find  a  criminal  behind  an  honest  smile ; 
And  the  boy  ne'er  grows  a  villain  who  keeps  whistling  all  the  while,- 
Though  he  whistle  out  of  tune. 

What  cares  he  for  fickle  fortune, — what  the  fashion  may  bestow  ? 
In  his  little  barefoot  kingdom  royalty  in  rags  may  go. 
With  an  apple  in  his  pocket  and  another  in  his  mouth, 
Cares  not  how  the  wind  is  blowing,  whether  north  or  whether  south ; 
For  he  has  no  crops  a-growing,  has  no  ships  upon  the  sea; 
And  he  keeps  right  on  a-whistling,  whate'er  the  tune  may  be, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune. 

Tis  the  early  smile  of  Summer  creeping  o'er  the  face  of  June, 
Even  though  this  crude  musician  many  times  is  off  the  tune, 
Till  it  bears  the  same  resemblance  to  the  melody  that's  meant, 
That  his  garments  do  to  trousers  little  matter  how  they're  rent. 
When  he's  very  patriotic  then  his  tune  is  sure  to  be — 
Although  a  bit  rebellious — "My  Country,  'Tis  of  Thee !" 
Which  he  whistles  out  of  tune: 
(America.) 


HUMOROUS  359 

Such  a  vision  of  good  nature  in  his  cheery,  smiling  face; 
Better  clothes  would  check  his  freedom,  rob  him  of  his  rustic  grace; 
So  he  feels  a  trifle  awkward  in  his  brand-new  Sunday  clothes, 
While  repeating  to  his  teacher  all  the  Scripture  that  he  knows. 
Out  of  Sunday  school  he  rushes,  takes  his  shoes  off  on  the  sly; 
Says :     "The  angels  all  go  barefoot  in  the  sweeter  by  and  by !" 
Which  he  whistles  out  of  tune : 

(Sweet  By  and  By.) 


Sometimes  whistling  for  his  playmate ;  sometimes  whistling  for  his  dog, 
On  the  quiet,  in  the  schoolhouse,  to  perplex  the  pedagogue; 
Sometimes  whistling  up  his  courage;  often  whistling  just  because. 
In  the  South  he  whistles  "Dixie"  o'er  and  o'er,  without  a  pause, 
Till  he's  out  of  breath  completely,  when  it  seems  to  be,  perchance, 
But  a  knickerbocker  whistle,  since  it  comes  in  little  pants, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune : 

(Dixie.) 


Should  he  hail  from  old  New  England  you  may  safely  bet  your  life 
He  can  whittle  out  a  whistle  with  his  broken-bladed  knife. 
He  will  play  his  cornstalk  fiddle,  and  his  dog  will  never  fail 
To  show  appreciation,  beating  tempo  with  his  tail; 
Then  he  whistles  "Yankee  Doodle"  like  the  tunes  you  often  hear 
On  the  old  farmhouse  piano  when  the  sister  plays  by  ear, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune: 

(Yankee  Doodle.) 


There  is  many  a  weeping  mother  longing,  morning,  night,  and  noon, 
For  her  boy  to  come  back  whistling  just  the  fragment  of  a  tune; 
But  he's  yonder  entertaining  all  the  angels  unaware 
With  a  melody  so  human  they're  bound  to  keep  him  there; 
For  all  that  heavenly  music  nothing  sounds  to  them  so  sweet 
As  that  cheery,  boyish  whistle  and  the  patter  of  his  feet, — 
For  he  whistles  all  in  tune : 

(Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee.) 

— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


360  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  LITTLE  PEACH 

By  Eugene  Field 

A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew, — 
A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew, 
It  grew. 

One  day,  passing  that  orchard  through, 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue — 
Them  two. 

Up  at  that  peach  a  club  they  threw — 
Down  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  that  peach  of  emerald  hue. 
Mon  Dieul 

John  took  a  bite  and  Sue  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew, — 
Trouble  the  doctor  couldn't  subdue. 
Too  true ! 

Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew, — 
Boo  hoo! 

What  of  that  peach  of  the  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  is  through. 
Adieu  1 


LITTLE  BILLEE 
By  W.  M.  Thackeray 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 


HUMOROUS  361 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 

And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 
Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 

They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree ! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 

We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he. 

"Oh !  Billy  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 

So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information 

He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"First  let  me  say  my  catechism, 

Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  me." 
"Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

While  Jack  pulled  off  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top  gallant  mast, 

And  down  he  fell,  on  his  bended  knee. 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 

When  up  he  jumps.    "There's  land  I  see: 

"Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee ; 
There's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's 

He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee ; 
But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 

The  Captain  of  a  seventy-three. 


360  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  LITTLE  PEACH 

By  Eugene  Field 

A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew, — 
A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue ; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew, 
It  grew. 

One  day,  passing  that  orchard  through, 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue — 
Them  two. 

Up  at  that  peach  a  club  they  threw — 
Down  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  that  peach  of  emerald  hue. 
Mon  Dieu! 

John  took  a  bite  and  Sue  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew, — 
Trouble  the  doctor  couldn't  subdue. 
Too  true ! 

Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew, — 
Boo  hoo! 

What  of  that  peach  of  the  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  is  through. 
Adieu  I 


LITTLE  BILLEE 
By  W.  M.  Thackeray 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 


HUMOROUS  361 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 

And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 
Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 

They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree ! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 

We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he. 

"Oh !  Billy  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 

So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information 

He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"First  let  me  say  my  catechism, 

Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  me." 
"Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

While  Jack  pulled  off  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top  gallant  mast, 

And  down  he  fell,  on  his  bended  knee. 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 

When  up  he  jumps.    "There's  land  I  see: 

"Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee; 
There's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee; 

But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  seventy-three. 


362  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

A  GALLANT  THIRD  PARTY 
By  Littell  McClung 

A  wooer,  a  maid  and  the  moon, 
And  a  starry  night,  you'll  allow, 

Let's  say  in  August  or  June, 

Though  it  hardly  matters  just  now. 

The  man  in  the  moon  peered  down 
With  a  jealous  eye  on  the  pair, 

And  his  face  was  dark  with  a  frown, 
For  the  girl  was  bewitchingly  fair. 

4 

"Just  one,"  begged  the  lover.    "Please,  dear, 
Don't  you  see  I  love  only  you? 

And  nobody's  looking,  don't  fear; 

And  you  know  that  I'll  ever  be  true." 

But  the  maid  saw  the  man  in  the  moon, 
And  she  hardly  knew  how  to  reply; 

Maybe  she  might  pretty  soon ; 
Yet  maybe  she  oughtn't  to  try. 

But  the  chap  in  the  sky  was  a  brick, 
And  he  saw  that  he  shouldn't  be  seen, 

So  he  gathered  a  cloud,  black  and  thick, 
And  set  it  up  quick  as  a  screen. 


A  TRAGIC  STORY 

There  lived  a  sage  in  days  of  yore, 
And  he  a  handsome  pigtail  wore; 
But  wondered  much  and  sorrowed  more 
Because  it  hung  behind  him. 

He  mused  upon  this  curious  case, 

And  swore  he'd  change  the  pigtail's  place, 

And  have  it  hanging  at  his  face, 

Not  dangling  there  behind  him. 


HUMOROUS  363 

Says  he,  "The  mystery  I've  found, 

I'll  turn  me  round."     He  turned  him  round ; 

But  still  it  hung  behind  him. 

Then  round  and  round,  and  out  and  in, 
All  day  the  puzzled  sage  did  spin; 
In  vain  it  mattered  not  a  pin, 
The  pigtail  hung  behind  him. 

And  right,  and  left,  and  round  about, 
And  up,  and  down,  and  in  and  out, 
He  turned ;  but  still  the  pigtail  stout 
Hung  steadily  behind  him. 

And  though  his  efforts  never  slack, 
And  though  he  twist,  and  twirl,  and  tack, 
Alas!  still  faithful  to  his  back 
The  pigtail  hangs  behind  him. 


THE  POOR  LITTLE  BIRDIES 

By  A.  J.  Waterhouse 

The  poor  little  birdies  that  sleep  in  the  trees, 
Going  rockaby,  rockaby,  lulled  by  the  breeze; 
The  poor  little  birdies,  they  make  me  feel  bad, 
Oh,  terribly,  dreadfully,  dismally  sad, 
For — think  of  it,  little  one ;  ponder  and  weep — 
The  birdies  must  stand  when  they  sleep,  when  they  sleep ; 
And  their  poor  little  legs — 

I  am  sure  it  is  so — 
They  ache,  and  they  ache, 
For  they're  weary,  you  know. 
And  that  is  the  reason  that  far  in  the  night 
You  may  hear  them  say  "Dear-r-r !"  if  you  listen  just  right, 
For  the  poor  little  birdies  must  sleep  on  the  bough, 
And  they  want  to  lie  down,  but  they  do  not  know  how. 

Just  think  of  it,  darling;  suppose  you  must  stand 
On  those  little  brown  legs,  all  so  prettily  planned; 


366  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Hank  continued  to  carry  the  larger  part  of  the  business,  borrowed  his 
schedule  and  started  to  operate  upon  it  with  their  new  yellow  coach 
with  vermillion  trimmings  and  four  white  horses,  to  say  nothing  of 
George  William  Pike  with  his  curled  mustache,  red  necktie  and  stand- 
up  collar.  He  would  have  worn  a  silk  hat  too— the  owners  of  the  line 
were  aristocrats,  with  ideas  and  winter  residences  in  Lunnon — but 
Morosin'  Jones  who  squirmed  his  shoulders  and  clasped  his  hands 
like  an  awkward  maid  of  fifteen  when  he  talked,  begged  him  to  desist ; 
he,  Morosin',  had  such  an  unconquerable  inclination  to  perforate  high 
hats  with  his  forty-four  wherever  they  might  be.  George  William 
wisely  desisted.  Uncle  Hank's  stage  had  nothing  but  a  faint  recollec- 
tion of  paint,  and  was  written  over  with  history  recorded  by  bullet 
holes;  the  harness  was  apt  to  be  patched,  and  Nebuchadnezzar,  the 
off  leader,  was  wall-eyed,  and  his  partner,  Moloch,  sway-backed  and 
short  maned.  Of  the  wheel  horses,  one  was  a  gray  with  hoofs  that 
needed  constant  paring;  the  other  had  the  appearance  of  a  white- 
washed house  at  which  mud  had  been  flung  with  startling  effect  Of 
the  two,  Rome  and  Athens,  no  god  could  have  decided  which  was 
entitled  to  the  palm  of  ugliness ;  but  Uncle  Hank,  who  loved  them  all 
with  the  love  a  man  may  have  for  a  homely  dog,  declared  that  the 
wheel-horses  were  beauty  spots  in  nature  alongside  the  leaders. 

It  was  a  memorable  morning  on  which  the  two  stages  left  Paradise 
Bar  together.  The  yellow  stage,  with  its  nickel-plated  harness  and 
white  horses  and  tan-gloved  driver,  started  three  minutes  first;  and 
then,  as  if  gathering  up  his  horses  and  the  stage  and  the  reins  alto- 
gether, Uncle  Hank  went  down  the  line.  It  was  a  lively  experience 
for  the  passengers ;  bends  they  went  around  on  two  wheels,  creeks  they 
took  at  a  leap,  bowlders  and  ruts  only  they  avoided,  and  that  because 
a  scientist  was  using  his  science.  The  grade  of  the  other  line  must 
have  been  at  that  time  very  good,  for  Uncle  Hank  had  been  only  four 
minutes  hitched  in  front  of  the  Elysium  Hotel  when  the  other  stage 
drew  up.  It  was  true  that  he  picked  his  teeth  as  if  he  had  been  in  to 
lunch,  and  casually  enquired  of  a  passenger,  so  that  George  William 
might  hear,  if  they  had  stopped  for  dinner  on  the  road,  or  did  they 
expect  to  get  it  at  the  hotel;  whereat  the  passenger,  jolted  and  jarred 
beyond  good  manners,  roared:  "Stop  for  dinner!  Great  Scott!  We 
stopped  for  nothing — bowlders,  rivers,  landslides  and  precipices;  if  his 
Satanic  Majesty  was  after  us,  he  found  the  worst  trail  he  ever  trav- 
eled'— and  I  can't  imagine  what  other  reason  there  could  be  for  such 
driving." 

The  passenger  went  into  the  hotel.    George  William  said  something 


HUMOROUS  367 

below  his  breath,  and  Uncle  Hank  smiled.  Alas  for  vanity!  Ever  it 
goes  before  a  stumble,  a  broken  spring  or  a  sick  horse.  The  stages  had 
different  schedules  for  the  upward  trip,  but  on  the  next  journey  down- 
ward disaster  overtook  Uncle  Hank.  Seven  of  the  nine  hours'  ride 
were  accomplished,  and  the  stage  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon. 
Here  a  point  of  rock  thrusts  itself  forward,  marking  a  sharp  turn  in 
the  road.  Around  this  turn  galloped  the  horses,  and  twenty  feet  before 
him,  sunning  itself  in  the  road,  Moloch  saw  an  eleven-button  rattler. 
He  knew  what  that  meant,  and  sat  down  and  slid  with  all  four  feet 
plowing  the  mountain  road.  They  stopped  short  of  the  snake,  that  had 
coiled  and  awaited  their  coming,  and  then  perceiving  the  enemy  other- 
wise engaged,  had  wisely  slipped  into  the  manzanitas  by  the  roadside. 
Fifteen  precious  minutes  were  used  in  repairing  the  disaster  to  the 
harness — and  the  race  was  lost  That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
ten  years  in  which  he  had  been  the  oracle  of  two  communities,  Uncle 
Hank,  instead  of  telling  stories  and  expounding  wisdom  for  the  ben- 
efit of  the  unenlightened  below,  went  up  to  his  room  immediately  after 
dinner  and  retired  without  lighting  his  candle.  George  William  put  on 
a  new  pink  necktie  and  his  beloved  silk  hat,  and  went  about,  stepping 
high  like  one  of  his  white  horses,  but  casting  wary  glances  abroad  for 
the  appearance  of  one  Morosin'  Jones,  who  was  coy  and  fidgety  and 
could  perforate  a  dollar  at  one  hundred  feet. 

In  Paradise  Bar  every  game  was  settled  by  the  best  two  out  of  three. 
Life  was  too  feverish  and  too  short  to  await  three  out  of  five,  and  it 
was  against  the  principles  of  the  camp  to  leave  any  questions  unde- 
cided. Therefore,  it  was  tacitly  understood  that  the  winner  of  the 
next  race  would  be  the  standard  of  comparison  thereafter  in  matters 
pertaining  to  travel.  Other  stage  lines  would  be  second-class,  ranking 
just  above  a  mule  train.  There  was  another  reason:  Paradise  Bar 
was  exceedingly  fond  of  excitement,  but  it  had  no  mind  to  risk  its 
neck  in  stage  racing  down  the  mountain-side  forever  and  ever;  preci- 
pices yawned  too  many  invitations.  The  personal  feeling  and  the  bet- 
ting both  heavily  favored  Uncle  Hank,  both  gratifying  and  troubling 
to  him. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  in  the  third  race,  under  fair  conditions, 
Uncle  Hank  would  have  won ;  he  would  either  have  won  or  gone  over 
a  precipice.  But  Rome,  who  had  never  before  been  known  to  have 
anything  the  matter  with  him  save  an  abnormal  appetite  for  grain,  fell 
slightly  lame.  All  day  before  the  race,  Uncle  Hank  worried  over  this, 
all  night  he  tossed  in  his  blankets,  and  was  only  partly  relieved  the 
next  day  when  Rome  appeared  again  to  be  all  right,  and  ate  hay  as 


368  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

if  under  the  impression  that  the  sun  was  shining  and  there  was  plenty 
more  being  made.  The  last  two  days  had  greatly  changed  Uncle 
Hank;  he  carried  his  head  so  that  his  beard  touched  his  breast;  his 
hat  was  slouched  low  over  his  eyes;  he  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  spoke  in  monosyllables.  He  ate  little  and  had  a  far-away  look  in 
his  blue  eyes.  He  saw  his  fame  departing,  his  reputation  collapsing, 
all  that  a  man  may  build  in  this  life,  whether  he  creates  empires  or 
digs  post-holes,  crumbling — the  reputation  of  "being  onto  his  job." 

The  next  morning  with  the  fear  of  that  lameness  in  his  heart,  Uncle 
Hank  hitched  up  and  drove  down  the  main  street.  He  saw  the  yellow 
stage  also  ready.  There  was  no  evidence  of  lameness  in  Rome  as  he 
drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  express  office,  nor  when  the  stage  stopped 
at  the  Record  Nugget  for  the  hotel  passengers.  Uncle  Hank's  de- 
spondent face  became  more  cheerful ;  he  looked  older  and  grayer  and 
even  bent  a  little  that  morning,  but  he  climbed  up  on  the  box  with  his 
old-time  energy.  His  courage  and  spirit  were  never  to  be  doubted ; 
only  that  lameness  in  Rome  worried  him.  He  gathered  up  the  lines 
and  loosened  his  whip;  but  the  four  did  not  go  with  their  accustomed 
dashing  display.  Instead  there  was  confusion  and  hesitation;  in  fif- 
teen yards  the  slight  lameness  of  the  right  wheel  horse  was  apparent, 
and  Uncle  Hank  drew  up.  He  dropped  the  lines,  and  for  a  moment 
his  face  was  in  his  hands. 

The  other  stage  had  gone.  Nothing  could  ever  convince  the  public 
satisfactorily,  he  thought,  that  after  starting  he  had  not  given  up  the 
race  through  fear.  The  limp  was  scarcely  apparent.  He  perhaps 
would  not  have  noticed  it  for  some  miles  had  it  not  been  for  his 
haunting  dread  and  the  false  start.  Yet  he  knew  what  it  would  mean 
before  the  level  was  reached — a  steep  down  grade  and  he  would  have 
to  go  walking  into  Meadow  Lark,  a  loser  by  an  hour. 

Uncle  Hank,  a  broken  old  man,  climbed  down  from  the  stage. 
"Take  'em,  George,"  he  said  to  the  hostler.  "There  won't  be  no  stage 
down  to-day."  He  said  no  more,  but  passed  amid  a  dead  silence  along 
the  road  through  the  population  of  Paradise  Bar  which  had  turned 
out  to  see  the  beginning  of  the  deciding  race.  Some  guessed  at  the 
reason;  and  to  all  it  became  apparent  when  the  horses  were  taken 
back  to  the  stable  and  carefully  examined.  That  day  Uncle  Hank  did 
not  appear,  nor  the  next;  So  Bob  Allen  went  up  to  his  cabin  in  the 
evening  and,  receiving  no  response  to  his  knocking,  kicked  open  the 
door  and  went  in.  Uncle  Hank  lay  in  his  bunk,  his  face  to  the  wall. 
To  Bob's  expressions  of  sympathy  and  encouraging  remarks,  he  made 
no  reply;   they   were  to  him   as  the   expressions   engraved  on  tomb- 


HUMOROUS  369 

stones,  and  but  added  bitterness  now.  To  his  arguments,  Uncle  Hank 
vouchsafed  single  words  in  return,  and  never  turned  his  face  from 
the  wall.  From  sympathy  to  argument,  from  argument  he  drifted  into 
bulldozing;  alluded  to  Uncle  Hank  as  a  man  afraid  of  things,  among 
which  he  specified  a  large  number  in  language  that  I  will  not  repro- 
duce; and  when  three  connected  words  was  the  most  he  could  get  out 
of  Uncle  Hank  even  by  this,  Bob  knew  the  case  was  desperate,  and 
retired,  defeated. 

The  friends  of  Uncle  Hank,  the  entire  population  of  Paradise  Bar, 
gravely  discussed  the  situation.  It  was  unanimously  decided  that  the 
yellow  stage  should  thereafter  stop  outside  of  the  camp  limits,  and 
Morosin'  Jones  publicly  announced,  his  shoulders  working  up  and  down 
most  nervously,  that  George'  William  would  immediately  cease  from 
wearing  stand-up  collars  and  red  neckties;  he  would  come  into  camp 
with  a  slouch  hat,  a  flannel  shirt  and  teamster's  warranted-to-wear 
gloves — or  it  was  quite  likely  he  would  never  go  out  again.  This 
statement  met  with  the  silent  approval  of  the  entire  assemblage;  and 
George  William,  hearing  of  it,  puzzled  and  bewildered,  wisely  re- 
frained from  coming  into  the  camp  limits  at  all,  but  remained  by  the 
stage.  He  explained  in  Meadow  Lark  that  Paradise  Bar  had  gone 
crazy ;  and  a  -cheerful  miner  from  that  camp  acquiesced,  but  added  that 
some  of  the  lunatics  were  not  yet  corralled,  but  still  straying  about ;  and 
said  it  looking  so  significantly  at  George  William  that  the  latter  went 
home  and  hunted  up  a  flannel  shirt  at  once. 

The  next  morning  a  committee  waited  on  Uncle  Hank,  prepared 
with  arguments  that  would  show  him  the  error  of  broken-heartedness 
— the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  cure  if  its  victims  would  but  live 
to  tell  us  of  it.  Uncle  Hank  still  lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  in 
a  little  while  the  news  was  abroad  in  the  camp  that  Uncle  Hank,  still 
with  his  face  to  the  wall,  had  resolutely  died.  It  was  a  gray  day  in 
Paradise  Bar;  the  melodion  in  the  Red  Light  was  hushed;  friends 
nodded  instead  of  speaking  as  they  passed  by;  the  camp  began  to 
realize  what  it  had  lost.  It  was  determined,  as  a  last  mark  of  the 
camp's  esteem  for  Uncle  Hank,  to  make  the  journey  to  the  place  of 
the  final  tie-up  simple  but  impressive.  No  formal  meeting  was  held; 
the  boys  just  gathered  together  and  acted  on  a  common  idea.  The 
whole  camp  would  be  in  the  procession,  and  they  would  go  down  to 
Meadow  Lark  over  the  old  familiar  road.  Uncle  Hank's  stage  carry- 
ing the  old  stage-driver,  would  be  at  the  head,  of  course;  then  there 
was  an  awkward  pause.  More  than  one  felt  that  it  would  add  to  the 
dignity  of  the  occasion  to  have  two  stages,  but  finally,  when  Major 


370  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Wilkerson  arose  and  suggested  that  the  Gray  Eagle  stage,  carrying 
leading  citizens,  be  placed  next,  there  was  a  murmur  of  dissent.  Then 
Bob  Allen  arose  in  his  place  and  made  the  only  known  speech  of 
his  life : 

"Friends,  you  are  on  the  wrong  trail  and  will  hit  a  blind  canyon,  cer- 
tain. Of  course  we  should  have  the  other  stage,  and  Pike  to  drive  it. 
Uncle  Hank  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  man  to  carry  jealousy  with  him 
into  camp.  Twasn't  being  beat  by  Pike  that  broke  Uncle  Hank's 
heart;  it  was  partly  p'haps  being  beat  at  all,  and  partly,  to  my  way 
of  thinkin',  because  Paradise  Bar  didn't  stand  behind  him.  That  was 
the  main  reason,  gentlemen;  he  just  died  of  pure  lonesomeness.  When 
this  yaller  ve-hicle  comes  into  camp,  does  we  say  to  it:  'You're  purty 
and  you're  new,  and  probably  your  springs  is  all  right  and  maybe 
your  road;  but  you  might  jest  as  well  pass  on.  Do  you  observe  this 
old  stage  with  its  paint  wore  off  and  its  bullet  holes?  Do  you  see  that 
it's  down  a  little  on  one  side  and  some  of  the  spokes  is  new  and  some 
are  old?  Do  you  know  that  these  four  old  hosses  have  been  whoopin' 
her  up  for  Paradise  Bar  and  for  nothin'  else  these  ten  years — and  a 
sunshiny  day  and  one  chuck  full  of  snow  and  sleet  was  all  the  same 
to  them?  Be  you  aware  that  this  is  our  Uncle  Hank,  and  that  he  has 
been  workin'  our  lead  for  us  these  fifteen  years,  and  never  lost  a  dol- 
lar or  a  pound  of  stuff  or  spilled  a  passenger,  or  asked  one  of  the 
boys  to  hoof  it  because  he  hadn't  no  diner of  Those  bullet  holes — 
men  behind  masks  made  'em,  but  Uncle  Hank  never  tightened  a  rib- 
bon for  the  whole  caboodle.  The  paint's  been  knocked  off  that  stage 
in  our  service,  and  it's  ours.  Therefore,  though  you  be  yaller  and 
handsome,  with  consid'ble  silver  plate,  we  can't  back  you  against  our 
own  flesh  and  blood.  And  that  settles  it.'  Did  we  talk  that  way,  boys  ? 
No,  we  jest  stood  off  and  gambled  on  the  result  as  if  Uncle  Hank 
was  a  travelin*  stranger  'stead  of  the  best  friend  we  had.  We  stood 
off  impartial  like  and  invited  the  white  hoss  outfit  to  git  in  and  win 
if  it  could.  And  now,  gentlemen,  have  we  got  the.  nerve  to  dynamite 
this  opposition  stage  line,  when  the  whole  gang  of  us  ought  to  be 
blown  sky  high? 

"Uncle  Hank  wouldn't  have  had  it  so.  He  didn't  cherish  any  ill 
feeling  pussonly  against  anybody;  whatever  he  said  was  because  they 
was  takin'  away  from  him  what  he  had  worked  all  his  life  for.  He 
wasn't  jealous  of  George  William,  but  of  him  as  a  stage  driver,  be- 
cause we  made  him  so.  Boys,  he  loved  us  and  was  mighty  proud  of 
our  regard — and  we  didn't  show  it  in  the  time  of  trial.  And  he's  gone 
over  the  great  divide  with  tears  in  his  eyes,   and  we  are  to  blame. 


HUMOROUS  371 

Who  among  any  of  us  poor  fools  has  a  right  to  say  that  the  other 
stage  shouldn't  follow?" 

Bob  sat  down  amid  absolute  silence,  wiping  his  face  vigorously. 
Major  Wilkerson  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  renew  my  suggestion,"  said  he, 
"that  we  have  the  Gray  Eagle  stage.  I  think  you'll  all  agree  that 
Bob's  right." 

Morosin'  Jones  rose  from  his  stump,  suffused  with  emotion.  "In 
course  he's  right,"  he  said,  huskily,  "but  the  stage  ou't  to  be  painted 
black."    A  murmur  of  assent  greeted  this  speech. 

The  day  was  beautiful.  The  procession  went  slowly  down  the  old 
stage  road,  past  Lime  Point,  through  the  Roaring  River  canyon,  be- 
yond up  Reddy's  grade,  over  the  First  Summit  and  then  through  Little 
Forest  to  the  watering-place  at  the  head  of  the  last  canyon.  Every 
stream,  every  tree,  every  rock  along  the  road  was  known  to  Uncle 
Hank.  He  was  going  home  over  a  familiar  way.  The  pine  trees, 
with  their  somber  green,  were  silent;  the  little  streams  that  went 
frolicking  from  one  side  of  a  canyon  to  another  seemed  subdued;  it 
was  spring,  but  the  gray  squirrels  were  not  barking  in  the  tree-tops, 
and  the  quail  seemed  to  pipe  but  faintly  through  the  underbrush.  The 
lupines  and  the  bluebells  nodded  along  the  way;  the  chipmunks  stood 
in  the  sunlight  and  stared  curiously. 

All  would  have  gone  well  had  not  George  William  Pike  been  a  man 
without  understanding — and  such  a  man  is  beyond  redemption.  He 
did  not  appreciate  the  spirit  of  the  invitation  to  join  in  this  last  sim- 
ple ceremony  in  honor  of  Uncle  Hank.  He  accepted  it  as  an  apology 
from  Paradise  Bar  and  growled  to  himself  because  of  the  absurd 
request  to  paint  the  coach  black — which  he  would  not  have  done  ex- 
cept for  an  order  from  the  superintendent,  who  was  a  man  of  policy. 
A  year  could  have  been  wasted  in  explaining  that  the  invitation  was 
an  expression  of  humility  and  of  atonement  for  the  camp's  treatment 
of  its  own.  So  he  came  and  wore  his  silk  hat  and  his  red  necktie, 
and  Morosin'  Jones  almost  had  a  spasm  in  restraining  himself. 

Down  the  mountain-side  they  went,  slowly  and  decorously.  Noth- 
ing eventful  happened  until  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  was  cleared,  and 
then  George  William  became  impatient.  He  could  not  understand  the 
spirit  of  the  occasion.  Meadow  Lark  and  supper  were  a  long  way  off, 
and  the  luncheon  at  Half-Way  House  had  been  light.  So  he  began 
making  remarks  over  his  horses'  heads  with  the  intention  of  hurrying 
up  Gregg,  who  was  driving  the  old  stage.  "Well  fitted  for  this  kind 
of  work,  those  horses,  ain't  they?"  he  said.     "Seems  curious  they  were 


372  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ever  put  on  the  stage."  Gregg  said  nothing.,  but  tightened  rein  a  bit. 
"Where  will  we  stop  for  the  night?"  asked  George  William  presently, 
flicking  the  off  leader's  ear  with  his  whip. 

Gregg  turned  around  angrily.  "If  you  don't  like  the  way  this  thing 
is  bein'  done,  you  can  cut  and  go  on  in  town  alone;  but  if  you  don't 
keep  your  mouth  closed  there'll  be  trouble." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  into  town  alone,"  rejoined  George  William 
pleasantly,  "but  I  reckon  we'd  go  in  better  fashion  if  we  was  at  the 
head  of  this  percession." 

"Maybe  you'd  better  try  it,"  said  Gregg,  reddening,  and  thereupon 
George  William  turned  out  his  four  white  horses  and  his  black  stage, 
without  saying  anything  to  his  two  passengers,  and  proceeded  to  go 
around.  Gregg  gathered  in  the  slack  in  his  reins.  "Go  backl"  he 
roared.  But  Pike,  swinging  wide  to  the  right  to  avoid  the  far-reaching 
whip,  went  on.  Nebuchadnezzar  pricked  up  his  ears.  Rome  looked 
inquiringly  at  Athens,  and  Moloch  snorted  indignantly.  Athens'  ex- 
pression said  very  plainly:  "Are  we  at  our  time  of  life  going  to  per- 
mit four  drawing-room  apologies  for  horses  and  a  new-fangled  rat- 
tletrap to  pass  us  on  our  own  road?"  The  negative  response  could 
be  seen  in  the  quiver  that  ran  down  each  horse's  back.  The  leaders 
gently  secured  their  bits  between  their  teeth.  So  absorbed  was  Gregg 
in  the  strange  actions  of  George  William  thaj:  he  paid  little  attention 
to  his  own  horses. 

Up  and  down  the  line  behind  him  men  were  waving  and  gesticulating 
and  shouting.  "Don't  let  him  pass  you!"  yelled  Wilkerson.  That 
instruction  ran  up  and  down  the  line,  clothed  in  a  variety  of  pic- 
turesque and  forcible  utterances.  But  no  instruction  was  needed  by 
the  horses  in  front  of  Gregg.  They  understood,  and  scarcely  had  the 
other  stage  turned  into  the  main  road  ahead  when  they  at  one  jump 
broke  from  a  walk  into  a  gallop.  George  William  saw  and  gave  his 
four  the  rein  and  the  whip.  Glancing  back,  Gregg  watched  the  whole 
procession  change  from  a  line  of  decorous  dignity  to  one  of  active 
excitement.  Dust  began  to  rise,  men  on  horseback  passed  men  on 
mules;  men  in  buckboards  passed  men  on  lumber  wagons.  George 
William  held  the  road,  and  with  it  a  great  advantage.  To  pass  him 
it  would  be  necessary  to  go  out  among  the  rocks  and  the  sage-brush, 
and  the  white  four  were  racing  swiftly,  rolling  out  behind  them  a 
blinding  cloud  of  dust.  Gregg  set  his  teeth,  and  spoke  encouragingly 
to  his  horses.  George  William  turned  and  shouted  back  an  insult: 
"You  needn't  hurry;  we'll  tell  them  you'll  be  there  to-morrow.     'Tend 


HUMOROUS  373 

to  your  new  business ;  there  is  nothing  in  the  other  for  you.  We're 
going  into  town  first." 

"Maybe,"  said  Gregg  grimly — and  loosened  his  whip.  The  four 
lifted  themselves  together  at  its  crack;  in  another  half  mile  they  were 
ready  to  turn  out  to  go  around.  Gregg  watched  for  a  place  anxiously. 
Brush  and  boulders  seemed  everywhere,  but  finally  he  chose  a  little 
sandy  wash  along  which  ran  the  road  for  a  way. 

Turning  out  he  went  into  the  sand  and  lost  ten  yards.  He  heard 
George  William  laugh  sarcastically.  But  the  old  stage  horses  had  been 
in  sand  before,  and  had  but  one  passenger  besides  their  driver.  In  a 
little  while  they  were  abreast  the  leaders,  and  here  they  stayed  and 
could  gain  no  farther.  For  George  William  laid  on  the  lash,  and  the 
road  was  good.  On  they  went,  the  one  stage  running  smoothly  on 
the  hard  road,  the  other  swaying,  bounding,  rocking  among  the  rocks 
and  gullies.  A  little  while  they  ran  thus,  and  then  the  road  began 
to  tell.  Pike  shouted  triumphantly.  Gregg,  with  despair  in  his  heart, 
watched  with  grief  the  loss  of  inch  after  inch.  "What  can  I  do?" 
he  groaned — and  turning,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Uncle 
Hank.  The  reins  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hands,  and  his  face  went 
white. 

"Give  me  a  hand !"  shouted  Uncle  Hank,  and  over  the  swinging  door 
he  crawled  on  the  seat — and  Gregg  perceived  he  was  flesh  and  blood. 
The  old  fire  was  in  his  eyes,  he  stood  erect  and  loosened  his  whip 
with  his  left  hand  easily  as  of  yore.  And  then  something  else  hap- 
pened. The  line  behind  was  scattered  and  strung  out  to  perhaps  a 
mile  in  length,  but  every  eye  was  on  the  racing  coaches.  They  saw 
the  familiar  figure  of  the  old  stage  driver,  saw  him  gather  up  the 
reins;  saw  and  understood  that  he  had  come  back  to  life  again,  and 
up  and  down  that  line  went  a  cheer  such  as  Paradise  Bar  will  seldom 
hear  again.  Uncle  Hank  sent  the  whip  waving  over  the  backs  of  his 
beloved.  "Nebuchadnezzar  1  Moloch !  Rome !  Athens  1  Come !  No 
loafing  now.  This  is  our  road,  our  stage — and  our  camp  is  shouting. 
Don't  you  hear  the  boys !  Ten  years  together,  you'n  me.  Whose  dust 
have  we  taken?  Answer  me!  Good,  Athens,  good — steady,  Rome, 
you  blessed  whirlwind.  Reach  out,  Neb — that's  it — reach.  Easy,  Mo- 
loch, easy ;  never  mind  the  rocks.     Yo-ho  !     Yo-ho-o-o  !     In  we  go  !" 

At  the  first  words  of  the  master,  the  four  lifted  themselves  as  if 
inspired.  Then  they  stretched  lowly  and  ran;  ran  because  they  knew 
as  only  horses  can  know;  ran  as  his  voice  ran,  strong  and  straight. 
In  three  minutes  they  turned  in  ahead  of  the  white  horses  and  the 


374  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

funeral  stage.  The  race  was  practically  won.  Uncle  Hank  with  the 
hilarious  Gregg  alongside,  drove  into  Meadow  Lark  ten  minutes  ahead 
of  all  others — and  Meadow  Lark  in  its  astonishment  almost  stampeded. 
After  a  while  the  rest  of  Paradise  Bar  arrived,  two  of  its  leading 
citizens,  who  had  started  out  in  a  certain  black  stage  drawn  by  four 
horses,  coming  in  on  foot.  They  were  quite  non-committal  in  their 
remarks,  but  it  was  inferred  from  a  few  words  dropped  casually  that, 
after  the  stage  stopped,  they  lost  some  time  in  chasing  the  driver  back 
into  the  foothills;  and  it  was  observed  that  they  were  quite  gloomy 
over  their  failure  to  capture  him. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Morosin'  Jones,  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy.  "What's 
the  good  of  cherishin'  animosity?  Why,  for  all  I  care  he  kin  wear 
that  red  necktie  now  if  he  wants  to" — then  after  a  pause — "yes,  and 
the  silk  hat,  too,  if  he's  bound  to  be  a  cabby." 

Uncle  Hank  was  smiling  and  shaking  hands  with  everybody  and 
explaining  how  the  familiar  motion  of  the  stage  had  brought  him  out 
of  his  trance.  "I'm  awful  glad  to  have  you  here,  boys;  mighty  glad 
to  see  you.  The  hosses  and  me  are  proud.  I'll  admit  it.  We 
oughter  be.  Ain't  Paradise  Bar  with  us,  and  didn't  we  win  two  out 
of  three,  after  all?"— From  The  Black  Cat,  June,  1902,  copyright  by 
Short  Story  Publishing  Co.,  and  used  by  their  kind  permission. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  SELECTIONS 
IN  POETRY 

PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES 

POPULARLY   KNOWN  AS 

THE  HEATHEN  CHINEE 

table  mountain,  1870 

By  Bret  Harte 

Which  I  wish  to  remark — 

And  my  language  is  plain — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name; 

And  I  shall  not  deny, 
In  regard  to  the  same, 

What  that  name  might  imply; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  chi^like, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand: 
It  was  Euchre.    The  same 

He  did  not  understand; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 
375 


376  DELIGHT  AND'  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve: 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with,  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "Can  this  be? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor," — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty- four  packs — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 
— Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  used  by  their 
kind  permission. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  377 

PARODY  ON  "THAT  HEATHEN  CHINEE" 

[The  following  remarkable  parody  was  written  by  the  Reverend 
Father  Wood,  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  St.  Ignatius  College, 
San  Francisco.  For  the  annual  exercises  of  his  class,  a  debate  was  to 
be  held  as  to  the  respective  abilities  of  the  various  authors  and  poets 
studied  during  the  year.  Each  had  his  advocates  and  strenuous  adher- 
ents. The  final  test  adopted  was  that  each  adherent  should  write  out 
Bret  Harte's  Heathen  Chinee  in  the  form  his  favorite  author  would 
have  followed.  These  verses  are  after  the  style  of  Samuel  Lover,  the 
Irish  poet] 

Did  ye  hear  of  the  haythen  Ah  Sin, 

Maginn  ? 
The  bouldest  of  bould  Chaneymin, 

Maginn  ? 
Oh.    He  was  the  bye 
Who  could  play  it  on  Nye 
And  strip  him  as  aisy  as  sin, 

To  the  skin. 
Oh.     'Twas  he  was  the  gossoon  to  win. 

It  was  euchre  w'd  play,  me  and  Nye, 

Me  bye ! 
An'  the  stakes  was  uproariously  high, 

Me  bye ! 
Nye's  sleeves  they  was  stocked, 
An'  me  feelin's  was  shocked, 
But  never  a  whisper  said  I — 

You  know  why ! 
For  Bill  is  outrageously  sly! 

The  game  to  the  haythen  was  new, 

Aboo! 
He  didn't  quite  know  what  to  do, 

Aboo! 
With  the  cyards  in  his  hand 
He  smiled  childlike  and  bland, 
And  asked  us  of  questions  a  few, 

Wirrastheu ! 
Which  we  answered  as  bad  as  we  knew. 


378  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

We  tuk  it  the  game  was  our  own, 

Ochone ! 
We'd  pick  him  as  cleane  as  a  bone, 

Ochone ! 
But  the  hands  that  he  played 
An'  the  p'ints  that  he  made, 
Made  me  feel  like  a  babby  ungrown, 

I  must  own! 
An'  dull  as  I'd  shwallowed  a  stone! 

Nye  wud  give  him  a  three  or  a  four, 

Asthore ! 
But  niver  a  better  cyard  more. 

Asthore ! 
Yet  he'd  dhrop  down  a  king 
Just  the  aisest  thing, 
An'  jokers  an'  bowers  galore 

By  the  score! 
You  may  lay  he'd  been  there  before  !t 

He  was  happy  as  haythen  cud  be, 

Machree ! 
His  manner  surprisingly  free, 

Machree ! 
But  William  looked  sour 
When  he  played  the  right  bower 
Which  William  had  dealt  out  to  me, 

Do  ye  see ! 
For  to  euchre  the  haythen  Chinee. 

Then  William  got  up  in  a  stew, 

Hurroo ! 
An'  shlated  Ah  Sin  black  and  blue, 

Hurroo ! 
An'  shuk  out  of  his  sleeve, 
I'm  not  makin'  believe, 
Of  picture  cyards  quite  a  good  few ! 

It  is  thrue — 
This  shtory  I'm  tellin'  to  you. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  379 

We  had  danced  to  the  haythen's  own  tune. 

Aroon ! 
Oh !     It's  lucky  we  got  out  so  soon, 

Aroon ! 
He  had  twenty-four  packs, 
On  his  fingers  was  wax — 
An'  this  in  Tim  Casey's  saloon! 

The  ould  coon ! 
How  he  played  us  that  warm  afternoon, 

Aroon ! 

KENTUCKY  PHILOSOPHY 
By  Harrison  Robertson 

You  Wi'yam,  cum  'ere,  suh,  dis  instunce.     Wu'  dat  you  got  under  dat 

box? 
I  do'  want  no  foolin' — you  hear  me?     Wut  you  say?     Ain't  nu'h'n  but 

rocks? 
'Peahs  ter  me  you's  owdashus  p'ticler.     S'posin'  dey's  uv  a  new  kine. 
I'll  des  take  a  look  at  dem  rocks.     Hi  yi  1  der  you  think  dat  I's  bline  ? 

/  calls   dat  a  plain   water-million,   you   scamp,   en    I   knows   whah   it 

growed ; 
It  come  fum  de  Jimmerson  cawn  fiel',  dah  on  ter  side  er  de  road. 
You  stole  it,  you  rascal — you  stole  it!     I  watched  you  fum  down  in 

de  lot. 
En  time  I  gets  th'ough  wid  you,  nigger,  you  won't  eb'n  be  a  grease  spot ! 

I'll  fix  you.     Mirandy !  Mirawdy !  go  cut  me  a  hick'ry — make  'ase ! 
En  cut  me  de  toughes'  en  keenes'  you  c'n  fine  anywhah  on  de  place. 
I'll  larn  you,  Mr.  Wi'yam  Joe  Vetters,  ter  steal  en  ter  lie,  you  young 

sinner, 
Disgracin'  yo'  ole  Christian  mammy,  en  makin'  her  leave  cookin'  dinner ! 

Now  ain't  you  ashamed  er  yo'se'f,  sur?    I  is.    I's  'shamed  you's  my 

son! 
En  de  holy  accorjan  angel  he's  'shamed  er  wut  you  has  done; 
En  he's  tuk  it  down  up  yander  in  coal-black,  blood-red  letters — 
"One  water-million  stoled  by  Wi'yam  Josephus  Vetters." 

En  wut  you  s'posen  Brer  Bascom,  yo'  teacher  at  Sunday  school, 
'Ud  say  ef  he  knowed  how  you's  broke  de  good  Lawd's  Gol'n  Rule? 


380  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Boy,  whah's  de  raisin'  I  give  you?     Is  you  boun'  fuh  ter  be  a  black 

viHiun  ? 
I's  s'prised  dat  a  chile  er  yo'  mammy  'ud  steal  any  man's  water-million. 

En  I's  now  gwiner  cut  it  right  open,  en  you  shain't  have  nary  bite, 
Fuh  a  boy  who'll  steal  water-millions — en  dat  in  de  day's  broad  light — 
Ain't — Lawdy!  its  green!  Mirandy!  Mi-ran-dy!  come  on  wi'  dat  switch! 
Well,  stealin'  a  g-r-e-e-n  water-million !  who  ever  yeered  tell  er  des 
sich? 

Cain't  tell  w'en  dey's  ripe?    W'y,  you  thump  'urn,  en  we'n  dey  go  pank 

dey  is  green; 
But  w'en  dey  go  punk,  now  you  mine  me,  dey's  ripe — en  dat's  des  wut 

I  mean. 
En  nex'  time  you  hook  water-millions — you  heered  me,  you  ign'ant, 

you  hunk, 
Ef  you  doan'  want  a  lickin'  all  over,  be  sho  dat  dey  allers  go  "punk!" 

— Harper's  Magazine. 

OH,  I  DUNNO ! 
Anonymous 

Lindy's  hair's  all  curly  tangles,  an'  her  eyes  es  deep  en'  gray, 
En'  they  alius  seems  er-dreamin'  en'  er-gazin'  far  away, 
When  I  ses,  "Say,  Lindy,  darlin',  shall  I  stay,  er  shall  I  go?" 
En'  she  looks  at  me  er-smilin',  en'  she  ses,  "Oh,  I  dunno !" 

Now,  she  knows  es  I'm  er-lovin'  her  for  years  an'  years  an'  years 
But  she  keeps  me  hesitatin'  between  my  doubts  an'  fears; 
En'  I'm  gettin'  pale  and  peaked,  en'  et's  jes  from  frettin'  so 
Ovur  Lindy  with  her  laughin'  an'  er-sayin',  "I  dunno !" 

T'other  night  we  come  frum  meetin'  an'  I  asks  her  fer  a  kiss, 
En'  I  tells  her  she's  so  many  that  er  few  she'll  never  miss ; 
En'  she  looks  up  kinder  shy-like,  an'  she  whispers  sorter  low, 
"Jim,  I'd  ruther  that  you  wouldn't,  but — er  well — Oh,  I  dunno !" 

Then  I  ses,  "Now  see  here,  Lindy,  I'm  er-wantin'  yer  ter  state 
Ef  yer  thinks  yer'll  ever  love  me,  an'  if  I  had  better  wait, 
Fer  I'm  tired  of  this  fulein',  an'  I  wants  ter  be  yer  beau, 
An'  I'd  like  to  hear  yer  sayin'  suthin'  else  but  I  dunno !" 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  381 

Then  I  puts  my  arm  around  her  an'  I  holds  her  close  and  tight, 
En'  the  stars  away  up  yander  seems  er-winkin'  et  th'  sight, 
Es  she  murmurs  sof  an'  faintly,  with  the  words  er-comin'  slow, 
"Jim,  I  never  loved  no  other!"    Then  I  ses,  "Oh,  I  dunnol" 


RORY  O'MORE 

By  Samuel  Lover 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  she  as  soft  as  the  dawn; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
(Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye), 
"With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about ; 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 
"Oh !  Jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "don't  think  of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  sootherin'  Mike; 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound — " 

"Faith,"  says  Rory,  "I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground." 

"Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go ; 

Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hatin'  you  so!" 

"Oh,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 

For  drames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear ; 

Oh!  jewel,  keep  dramin'  that  same  till  you  die, 

And  bright  mornin'  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ! 

And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 

Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  tazed  me  enough, 
Sure  I've  thrashed  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff 
And  I've  made  myself  drinkin'  your  health  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 


382  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  'round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 
And  he  kissed  her  sweep  lips; — don't  you  think  he  was  right? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir;  you'll  hug  me  no  more. 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kiss'd  me  before." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 

HOWDY  SONG 
By  Joel  Chandler  Harris 

It's  howdy,  honey,  when  you  laugh, 

An'  howdy  when  you  cry, 
An'  all  day  long  it's  howdy — 

I  never  shall  say  good-by. 

I'm  monst'us  peart  myse'f,  suh, 

An'  hopin'  the  same  fer  you, 
An'  when  I  ketch  my  breff,  suh, 

I'll  ax  you  howdy-do! 

It's  howdy,  honey,  when  you  sleep, 

It's  howdy,  when  you  cry; 
Keep  up,  keep  up  the  howdyin'; 

Don't  never  say  good-by  1 

I'm  middlin'  well  myse'f,  suh, 

Which  the  same  I  hope  fer  you ; 
Ef  you'll  let  me  ketch  my  breff,  suh, 

I'll  ax  you  howdy-do  1 

"IMPH-M" 

Anonymous 

When  I  was  a  laddie  lang  syne  at  the  schule, 
The  maister  aye  ca'd  me  a  dunce  an'  a  f ule ; 
For  somehoo  his  words  I  could  ne'er  understan', 
.  Unless  when  he  bawled,  "Jamie,  haud  oot  yer  han'l" 

Then  I  gloom'd  and  say,  "Imph-m," 

I  glunch'd,  and  say,  "Imph-m," 
I  wasna  owre  proud,  but  owre  dour  to  say — A-y-e ! 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  383 

Ae  day  a  queer  word,  as  lang-nebbits'  himsel', 
He  vow'd  he  would  thrash  me  if  I  wadna  spell, 
Quo  I,  "Maister  Quill,"  wi'  a  kin'  o'  swither, 
"I'll  spell  ye  the  word  if  ye'll  spell  me  anither; 

Let's  hear  ye  spell  Imph-m, 

That  common  word  Imph-m, 
That  auld  Scotch  word  Imph-m,  ye  ken  it  means  A-Y-E !" 

Had  ye  seen  hoo  he  glour'd,  hoo  he  scratched  his  big  pate, 
An'  shouted,  "Ye  villain,  get  oot  o'  my  gate! 
Get  aff  to  your  seat !  yer  the  plague  o'  the  schule ! 
The  de'il  o'  me  kens  if  yer  maist  rogue  or  fulel" 

But  I  only  said,  Imph-m, 

That  pawkie  word,  Imph-m, 
He  couldna  spell  Imph-m,  that  stands  for  an  A-y-el 

An'  when  a  brisk  wooer,  I  courted  my  Jean — 
O'  Avon's  braw  lasses  the  pride  an'  the  queen — 
When  'neath  my  gray  pladdie,  wi'  heart  beatin'  fain, 
I  speired  in  a  whisper  if  she'd  be  my  ain, 

She  blushed  an'  said,  Imph-m, 

That  charming  word,  Imph-m, 
A  thousan'  times  better  an'  sweeter  than  A-y-e ! 

Just  ae  thing  I  wanted  my  bliss  to  complete — 
Ae  kiss  frae  her  rosy  mou',  couthie  an'  sweet — 
But  a  shake  o'  her  head  was  her  only  reply — 
Of  course,  that  said  No,  but  I  ken  she  meant  A-y-e, 

For  her  twa  een  said  Imph-m, 

Her  red  lips  said,  Imph-m, 
Her  hale  face  said  Imph-m,  an'  Imph-m  means  A-y-e ! 

GRADING  THE  STREET 
By  Mistur  Malooney 

'Twas  mesilf  thin  as  bot  me  a  swate  little  lot, 
Wid  monies  I  digged  for  six  years  in  the  mines; 
An'  I  builded  an'  plastered  a  duck  o'  a  cot, 
Which  Biddy  soon  kivird  wid  crapers  and  vines, 
Wid  a  backyard  and  garding  convanyent  and  neat, 
Where  the  childer  and  pig  could  kape  out  o'  the  street. 


384  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  warked  wid  the  hod  an'  had  plinty  to  do, 
An'  a  stitch  in  my  back  ne'er  minded  at  all ; 
Our  childer  was  healthy  and  Biddy  was  true, 
And  I  sung  'neath  the  load  as  I  mounted  the  wall. 
For  I  knew  when  at  sundown  my  work  was  complete, 
My  supper  was  ready,  all  smoking  and  sweet. 

'Twas  down  in  a  valley  secure  from  the  wind, 

A  sandhill  a  north  and  a  sandhill  a  south; 

I  thought  that  dame  nature  to  me  was  so  kind 

She  opened  her  jaws  an'  we  lived  in  her  mouth. 

Biddy  oft  at  the  sand  would  objection  and  grete, 

But  I  tould  her  'twould  stop  whin  they  graded  the  street. 

Bad  luck  to  the  day  thin — one  Saturday  night 

I  came  back  from  working  two  month  and  a  week; 

Och !  sorry  an  inch  o'  my  cot  was  in  sight, 

'Twas  kivered  wid  sand  an'  all  livil  and  sleek ; 

I  thought  that  an  earthquake  had  made  the  hills  meet, 

Till  poor  Biddy  cried  out,  "They've  graded  the  street !" 

"Bad  luck  to  their  sowls,  thin,"  I  cried  in  my  hate ; 

"I'll  sue  them  for  spoiling  my  cottage  an'  land," 

Whin  Biddy  sobbed  out,  "Dear  Pat,  ye  are  late, 

'Tis  a  bill  agin  us  that  I  hould  in  my  hand." 

In  trouble  I  looked  at  the  figgers  complete, 

And  saw  four  hundred  dollars  for  grading  the  street! 

Poor  Biddy  was  faithful,  an'  didn't  repine; 
Her  cousin  the  childer  an'  her  had  took  in, 
'Til  I  could  wid  our  lavings  another  house  find; 
Wid  a  few  pots  an'  kettles  a  new  life  begin ; 
But  exparience  had  taught  me  a  lesson  I  weet, 
Ne'er  to  live  in,  a  valley  beside  o'  the  street. 

So  I  wint  to  the  highest  o'  hills  I  could  find, 

An'  rinted  a  place  that  commanded  a  view, 

An'  got  oursilves  sittled  so  much  to  our  mind, 

I  soon  earned  the  monies,  an'  paid  for  it,  too; 

'Twas  not  so  convanyent,  but  still  it  was  neat, 

Tho'  my  bones  ached  at  night,  as  I  toiled  up  the  street. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  385 

The  young  uns  grew  healthy,  the  air  was  so  good, 
An'  Biddy  her  clothes  dried  in  half  o'  the  time; 
Fur  to  help  me  to  pay  for  our  vittals  an'  food, 
The  poor  girl  by  washing  earned  many  a  dime, 
An'  she  kept  things  so  tidy,  complaicint  an'  sweet, 
I  nivir  drudgid  climin'  that  hill  o'  a  street. 

Thin  I  wint  to  the  mines  for  six  months  it  may  be, 
An'  wid  goold  in  my  pockit  I  hurried  me  back; 
Whin  I  got  to  the  hill,  nary  hill  could  I  see; 
'Twas  gone,  an'  some  lumber  obstructed  my  track — 
I  saw  in  an  instant  my  ruin  complete — 
Och !  faith  and  Saint  Peter,  They'd  graded  the  street! 

DOT  GOOD  FOR  NODINGS  DOG 

By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

You  vant  to  buy  my  dog?    Ah,  veil, 
Dere  vasn't  much  of  him  to  sell. 
His  eye  vas  broke,  his  leg  vas  out, 
Und  ven  you  ask  his  pedigree, 
Dot  make  her  laugh  come  out  o'  me- 
lt vas  a  madder,  I  be  blamed, 
About  der  vich  he  vas  ashamed. 
His  breed  vasn't  in  der  Catalogue, 
He  vas  a  good  for  nodings  dog. 

It  vas  a  day  I  don't  forgot, 

Mit  rain  und  sleet  und  dings  like  dot, 

Dis  homely  dog  he  corned  along 

Und  sing  me  such  a  hungry  song, 

I  said :    "Come  in  und  take  a  seat 

Und  have  some  scraps  und  tings  to  eat  1" 

I  smile  mit  him,  he  smile  mit  me, 

Und  look  like  he  vas  glad  to  be, 

Although  not  in  der  Catalogue, 

But  yust  a  good  for  nodings  dog. 

Each  time  I  come  around,  you  bet 
He  vag  dot  tail  already  yet ; 


386  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Und  show  me  plain  from  either  end, 
He  always  vant  to  be  my  friend. 
No  madder  I  say  yes !  or  no ! 
Where'er  I  gone  he  bound  to  go. 
Und  ven  he  lost  me,  runs  around 
Und  smells  me  out  upon  der  ground, 
Den  yumps  yust  like  he  vas  a  frog — 
Und  not  a  good  for  nodings  dog. 

My  Meenie  vas  a  leedle  tot, 
Yust  big  enough  to  be  like  dot; 
Und  run  about  und  have  some  play 
Yust  mit  der  dog,  until  von  day 
I  call  her,  und  she  vasn't  dere; 
I  couldn't  find  her  anyvere ; — 
"Dot  dog  gone  off,"  my  vife,  she  say, 
"Und  lead  dot  leedle  girl  avay : — 
He  vas  a  good  for  nodings  dog, 
Und  vasn't  vorth  der  Catalogue  1" 

My  leedle  Meenie  lost!     Mine  Got! 
I  never  tink  I  cry  like  dotl 
But  ven  I  found  dot  leedle  pet, 
I  cry  me  more  as  effer  yet : — 
Dot's  funny,  ven  a  man  feels  glad 
He  cries,  yust  like  ven  he  feel  bad; 
Der  tears  vas  yust  der  same ;  oh,  my, 
But  vat  a  difference  in  der  cry ! 
Dere  Meenie  sat  upon  der  log 
Und  pet  dot  good  for  nodings  dog. 

Und  ven  my  senses  all  got  clear, 
I  ask  me :     "Vot's  der  matter  here  ?" 
Und  looking  vere  my  Meenie  said, 
Dere  lay  a  great  big  vildcat  dead ! 
"Dot  dog  he  killed  him,"  said  my  vife, 
"Und  save  dot  leedle  Meenie's  life  T* 
I  never  saw  her  eyes  more  vet, 
Und  vile  I  hug  dot  leedle  pet 
She  hug  dot  good  for  nodings  dog, 
Vot  vasn't  vorth  der  Catalogue ! 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  387 

You  vant  to  buy  dot  dog?     Ah,  veil, 
Nobody's  here  who  vants  to  sell. 
My  vife  she  say,  "You  couldn't  buy 
Von  look  of  kindness  oud  his  eye  I" 
Und  as  for  me — dere's  not  for  sale, 
Not  e'en  der  vaggin'  of  his  tail  I 
Und  Meenie  told  you  plendy  quick, 
"In  all  dis  vorld  you  got  your  pick 
Of  dose  vot's  in  der  Catalogue, 
But  not  dot  good  for  nodings  dog." 
— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


SHE  LIKED  HIM  RALE  WEEL 

Anonymous 

The  Spring  had  brought  out  the  green  leaf  on  the  trees, 
An'  the  flowers  were  unfolding  their  sweets  tae  the  bees, 

When  Jock  says  tae  Jenny,  "Come,  Jenny,  agree, 

An'  say  the  bit  word  that  ye'll  marry  me." 
She  held  doon  her  heid  like  a  lily  sae  meek 
An'  the  blush  o'  the  rose  fled  awa'  frae  her  cheek. 

But  she  said,  "Gang  awa',  man,  your  heid's  in  a  creel." 

She  didna  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel — 
Oh,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
But  she  didna  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel. 

Then  Jock  says,  "Oh,  Jenny,  for  a  twalmonth  an'  mair, 
Ye  ha'e  kept  me  just  hangin'  twixt  hope  an'  despair, 
But  oh,  Jenny,  last  night  something  whispered  tae  me 
That  I'd  better  lie  doon  at  the  dyke-side  and  dee." 
Tae  keep  Jock  in  life,  she  gave  in  tae  be  tied : 
An'  soon  they  were  booked,  and  three  times  they  were  cried. 
Love  danced  in  Jock's  heart,  and  hope  joined  the  reel — 
He  was  sure  that  his  Jenny  did  like  him  rale  weel — 
Oh,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
But  she  never  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel. 


388  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  the  wedding  day  cam'  tae  the  manse  they  did  stap, 
An'  there  they  got  welcome  frae  Mr.  Dunlap, 

Wha  chained  them  to  love's  matrimonial  stake, 
Syne  they  took  a  dram  an'  a  mouth fu'  o'  cake, 
Then  the  minister  said,  "Jock,  be  kind  tae  your  Jenny, 
Nae  langer  she's  tiead  to  the  string  o'  her  minnie ; 
Noo,  Jenny,  will  ye  aye  be  couthie  an'  leal?" 
And  she  vowed  that  she  would,  for  she  liked  him  rale  weel- 
Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
Oh,  she  liked  him  rale  weel, 
At  last  she  owned  up  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel. 

S-H-H-H ! 

Anonymous 

My  maw — she's  upstairs  in  bed, 

An  IT'S  there  wif  her. 
It's  all  bundled  up  and  red — 

Can't  nobody  stir; 
Can't  nobody  say  a  word 

Since  It  came  to  us. 
Only  thing  'at  I  have  heard, 

'Ceptin'  all  It's  fuss, 
Is  S-h-h-hl 

That  there  nurse  she  shakes  her  head 

When  I  come  upstairs. 
"S-h-h-hl"  she  sez— 'at's  all  she's  said 

To  me  anywheres. 
Doctor — he's  th'  man  'at  brung 

It  to  us  to  stay — 
He  makes  me  put  out  my  tongue, 

'Nen  says  "S-h-h-hl" — 'at  way; 
Just  "S-h-h-h!" 

I  goed  in  to  see  my  maw, 

'Nen  dumb  on  the  bed. 
Was  she  glad  to  see  me?     Pshaw! 

"S-h-h-h !"— 'at's  what  she  said. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  389 

'Nen  It  blinked  and  tried  to  see — 

'Nen  I  runned  away 
Out  to  my  old  apple  tree, 

Where  no  one  could  say 
"S-h-h-h  I" 

'Nen  I  layed  down  on  the  ground 

An'  say  'at  I  just  wish 
I  wuz  big.     An'  there's  a  sound — 

'At  old  tree  says  "S-h-h-h !" 
'Nen  I  cry  an'  cry  an'  cry 

Till  my  paw  he  hears, 
An'  corned  there  an'  wiped  my  eye 

An'  mop  the  tears — 
'Nen  says  "S-h-h-h !" 

I'm  goin'  to  tell  my  maw  'at  she 

Don't  suit  me  one  bit — 
Why  do  they  all  say  "S-h-h-h !"  to  me 

An'  not  say  "S-h-h-h!"  to  IT? 


A  FEW  WORDS  FROM  WILHELM 
By  Wallace  Irwin 

Man  vants  put  leedle  hier  pelow 

Und  vants  dot  leedle  Dutch — 
Der  vishes  vich  I  vish,  I  know, 

Are  nicht  so  f ery  much : 
Choost  Europt,  Asia,  Africa, 

Der  Vestern  Hemishpere 
Und  a  coaling-station  in  Japan — 

Dot  vill  pe  all  dis  year. 

Hi-lee,  hi-lo,  der  winds  dey  plow 
Choost  like  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein;" 

Und  vat  iss  mein  pelongs  to  Me, 
Und  vat  iss  yours  iss  mein! 


390  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Jah  also,  ven  I  vloat  aroundt 

Mitin  mein  royal  yacht 
I  see  so  much  vat  iss  nicht  Dutch 

Dot— ach,  du  lieber  Gott  !— 
It  gif  me  such  a  shtrange  distress 

I  gannot  undershtand 
How  volks  gan  lif  in  happiness 

Mitout  no  Vaderland! 

Hi-lee,  hi-lo,  der  winds  dey  plow 
As  I  sail  around  apout 

To  gif  der  Nations  good  advice 
Und  sausages  und  kraut. 

Each  hour  I  shange  mein  uniform, 

Put  I  never  shange  mein  mindt, 
Und  efery  day  I  make  ein  spooch 

To  penefit  mankindt: 
Race  Soosancide,  der  Nation's  Pride, 

Divorce  and  Public  Sins — 
I  talk  so  much  like  Rosenfeldt 

I  dink  ve  must  pe  tvins  1 

Hi-lee,  hi-lo,  der  vinds  dey  plow 
Der  maxim  Rule  or  Bust — 

You  gannot  wreck  our  skyndicate 
Ven  Gott  is  in  der  Trust! 

Being  ein  kviet  Noodral  Power, 

I  know  mein  chob,  you  bet — 
I  pray  for  Beace,  und  hope  for  War 

Und  keep  mein  powder  wet; 
Put  ven  I've  nodings  else  to  do, 

Put  shtandt  around  und  chat, 
Den  der  Right  Divine  talks  nonsense  t'rough 

Mein  military  hat. 

Hi-lee,  hi-lo,  der  vinds  dey  plow 

Und  softly  visper  dis: 
"Der  Kaiser  he  iss  more  as  yet 

Und  all  iss  right  vat  Iss!" 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  391 

AT  GRANDMA'S 

Anonymous 

I  went  to  visit  Grandma 

One  cold  Thanksgiving  day; 
I  shookt  and  freezed  and  chattered 

All  along  the  way. 
Grandma  was  knitting  stockings, 

So  I  tried  to  knit; 
I  pulled  the  string  the  wrong  way, 

And  unmade  every  bit. 

Next  day  I  tried  to  tackle 

A  piggy  for  a  horse, 
And  tumbled  in  the  pig-pen — ■ 

And  wasn't  Grandma  cross! 
I'm  sure  it  wasn't  my  fault 

That  my  new  dress  was  white, 
If  mamma  had  made  it  pig-color 

It  wouldn't  have  shown  a  mite.  , 

My  Grandma  has  a  brick  room 

Filled  up  with  pans  of  milk. 
One  day  I  took  in  pussy, 

She's  just  as  soft  as  silk — 
She's  a  drefful  funny  pussy — 

All  along  the  shelf  she  ran, 
And  with  her  little  nosey 

Made  blue  holes  in  every  pan. 
My  grandma's  dreffully  stingy, 

She  drove  us  both  away, 
And  said  she'd  half  a  mind 

To  send  me  home  that  day. 

Sometimes  this  pussy's  naughty — 

One  time  she  catched  a  mouse ; 
She  teased  and  scratched  and  bited  it 

All  up  and  down  the  house. 
I  whipped  her  with  the  tater-masher 

Every  time  she  made  a  turn, 
And  got  away  poor  mousey 

And  hid  him  in  the  churn. 


392  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Who  ever  knew  that  milk  would  drown? 

I  thought  'twas  only  rivers. 
But  when  Grandma  churned, 

My  mousey  was  drowned  all  to  shivers. 
I  saw  a  tub  of  milk  onct, 

We  have  ours  in  a  dish. 
I  thought  'twas  good  for  nothing 

So  I'd  try  to  fish. 

I  just  got  settled  down  there, 

My  legs  were  nearly  freezed, 
When  Grandma  came  in  screaming — 

"O  that  girl  is  in  my  cheese." 
She  jumped  me  out  I  tell  you 

Right  on  the  cold  stone  floor, 
And  called  my  new  boots  dirty, 

And  locked  the  dairy  door. 

She  gave  the  butter  to  the  pigs, 

And  put  me  straight  to  bed. 
And  whipped  poor  pussy  dreffully 

Right  on  her  little  head. 
Fs  been  drefully  good  to  Grandma, 

Not  made  a  bit  of  muss. 
But  I's  going  home  to-morrow 

Cause,  cause  Grandma  says  I  must 

A  CHILD'S  ALMANAC 

By  J.  W.  Foley 

My  mamma  says  'at  w'en  it  rains 
'Eyre  washin'  Heaven's  window-panes, 
An'  careless  angels  'ist  do  fill 
'Eir  pails  too  full  an'  'atway  spill 
Some  water  down  on  us.    'At's  w'y 
It  rains  some  days  w'en  maybe  I 
Would  like  to  play.     An'  'en  she  says 
It's  'ist  'em  angels'  carelessness 
'At  makes  'em  raindrops  fall  'at  way 
At  picnics  an'  on  circus  day. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  393 

My  mamma  says  'at  w'en  it  snows 
'Eyre  angels  pickin'  geese,  she  knows, 
An'  'stead  o'  usin'  'em  t'  stuff 
'Eir  pillow-cases,  'ey  'ist  puff 
An'  blow  an'  don't  clear  up  'eir  muss 
Till  all  'em  feathers  fall  on  us. 
An'  she  says  'ey  'ist  pick  'atway 
Cuz  'ey  want  geese  f  Tristmas  day. 
An'  'at's  w'y  'eres  e'  mostes'  snow 
Right  close  t'  Tristmas  time,  you  know. 

My  mamma  says  w'en  e'  wind  'ist  roars 
An'  blows,  'at's  w'en  e'  angel  snores, 
But  w'en  it  lightnings,  she  says,  w'y 
'Eyre  scratchin'  matches  on  the  sky, 
An'  w'en  it  rumbles  'bove  our  heads 
'Ey're  movin'  furniture  an'  beds 
Up  'ere,  an'  cleanin'  house,  an'  shakes 
'Eir  moth-balls  out  an'  'at's  w'at  makes 
It  hail.    An'  weather,  she  'ist  'clares 
Is  'ist  w'at  angels  does  upstairs. 


DOT  LONG  HANDLED  DIPPER 
By  C.  F.  Adams 

Der  poet  may  sing  of  "Der  Oldt  Oaken  Pooket," 

Und  in  schweetest  langvich  its  virtues  may  tell, 
Und  how,  ven  a  poy,  he  mit  eggsdasy  dook  it, 

Vhen  dripping  mit  coolness  it  rose  from  der  well: 
I  don't  take  some  stock  in  dot  manner  of  drinking, 

It  vas  too  much  like  hosses  and  cattle,  I  dink, 
Dher  vas  more  sadisfaction  in  my  way  of  drinking 

Mit  dot  long-handled  dipper  that  hangs  py  der  sink. 

"How  schweet  vrom  der  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it — " 
Dot  would  sound  pooty  good,  eef  it  only  vas  true, 

Der  water  schbills  ofer,  you  petter  believe  it, 
Und  run  down  your  schleeve  und  schlop  indo  your  shoe : 


394  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Den  down  on  your  nose  comes  dot  oldt  iron  handle, 
Und  make  your  eyes  water  so  quick  as  a  wink ! 

I  dells  you  dot  bookit  don't  hold  by  a  candle 
To  dot  long-handled  dipper  dot  hangs  py  der  sink. 

How  nice  it  musd  be  in  der  cold  vinter  vedder, 

Vhen  it  settles  right  down  to  a  cold,  f reezin'  rain, 
To  haf  dot  rope  coom  oup  so  light  as  a  feather 

Und  find  dat  der  bookit  vas  broke  off  der  chain  1 
Den  down  in  der  well  you  go  off  a-fishing, 

While  into  your  back  comes  an  oldt  fashioned  kink! 
I  bet  you  mine  life  all  der  time  you  vas  vishing 

For  dot  long-handled  dipper  dot  hangs  py  der  sink. 

Dhen  give  oup  der  bookit  at  vonce  to  der  horses, 

Off  mikrobes  und  tadpoles  schust  give  dem  their  fill, 
Gife  me  dat  pure  vater  dot  all  der  time  courses 

Droo  dose  pipes  dot  run  from  der  schpring  on  der  hill : 
Und  eef  der  goot  dings  of  dis  vorld  I  get  rich  in, 

Und  friends  all  around  me  dheir  glasses  schuld  clink, 
I  still  vill  remember  dot  old  country  kitchen 

Und  dot  long-handled  dipper  dot  hangs  py  der  sink. 

DE  FUST  BANJO 
By  Irwin  Russell 

Go  'way,  fiddle!   folks  is  tired  o'  hearin'  you  a-squawkin', 
Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters! — don't  you  heah  de  banjo  talkin'? 
About  the  'Possum's  tail  she's  qwine  to  lecter — ladies,  listen! — 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is  missin' : 

"Dar's  gwine  to  be  a'  oberflow,"  said  Noah,  lookin'  solemn — 
Fur  Noah  tuk  the  "Harald,"  an'  he  read  the  ribber  column — 
An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'arin'  timber-patches, 
An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the  steamah  Natchez. 

01'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin'  an'  a-chippin'  an'  a-sawin'; 
An'  all  de  wicked  neighbors  kep'  a-laughin'  an'  a-pshawin'; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine  to  happen : 
An'  forty  days  an'  forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep'  a-drappin'. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  395 

Now  Noah  had  done  cotched  a  lot  ob  ebry  sort  o'  beas'es — 

Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces ! 

He  had  a  Morgan  colt  an'  sebral  head  o'  Jarsey  cattle — 

An'  druv  'em  'board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heered  de  thunder  rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain !  it  comes  so  awful  hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee; 

De  people  all  wuz  drownded  out — 'cep'  Noah  an'  de  critters, 

An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat — an'  one  to  mix  de  bitters. 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an*  a-sailin' ; 

De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin'; 

De  sarpints  hissed ;  de  painters  yelled ;  till  whut  wid  all  de  f  ussin', 

You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  'roun'  an'  cussin'. 

Now  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on  de  packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop,  an'  c'u'dn't  stan'  de  racket; 
An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an'  bent  it, 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made — de  fust  dat  wuz  invented. 

He  wet  der  ledder,  stretched  it  on;  made  bridge  an*  screws  an  aprin; 

An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck — 'twuz  berry  long  an'  tap'rin'; 

He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to  ring  it; 

An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz:  how  wuz  he  gwine  to  string  it? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin'; 
De  ha'r  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong, — des  fit  fur.  banjo-stringin'; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day-dinner  graces; 
An'  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to  basses. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig, — 'twas  "Nebber  min'  de  wedder," 
She  soun'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  togedder; 
Some  went  to  pattin' ;  some  to  dancin' ;  Noah  called  de  figgers ; 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob  niggers ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time — it's  mighty  strange — dere's  not  de  slightes'  showin' 
Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin'; 
An'  curious,  too,  dat  nigger's  ways :  his  people  nebber  los'  'em — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de  nigger — dar's  de  banjo  an'  de  'possum! 


396  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  MOO-COW-MOO 
By  Edmund  Vance  Cooke 

My  pa  held  me  up  to  the  moo-cow-moo 
So  clost  I  could  almost  touch, 

En  I  fed  him  a  couple  of  times,  or  two, 
En  I  wasn't  a  'fraid-cat— MUCH. 

But  if  my  papa  goes  into  the  house, 

En  mamma  she  goes  in,  too, 
I  just  keep  still,  like  a  little  mouse, 

Fer  the  moo-cow-moo  might  Moo ! 

The  moo-cow-moo's  got  a  tail  like  a  rope 
En  it's  raveled  down  where  it  grows ; 

En  it's  just  like  feeling  a  piece  of  soap 
All  over  the  moo-cow's  nose. 

En  the  moo-cow-moo  has  lots  of  fun 
Just  swinging  his  tail  about; 

En  he  opens  his  mouth  and  then  I  run — 
'Cause  that's  where  the  moo  comes  out ! 

En  the  moo-cow-moo's  got  deers  on  his  head 
En  his  eyes  sticks  out  of  their  place, 

En  the  nose  of  the  moo-cow-moo  is  spread 
All  over  the  end  of  his  face. 

En  his  feet  is  nothing  but  finger-nails 
En  his  mamma  don't  keep  'em  cut, 

En  he  gives  folks  milk  in  water-pails 
Ef  he  don't  keep  his  handles  shut. 

'Cause  ef  you  er  me  pulls  the  handles,  why 
The  moo-cow-moo  says  it  hurts, 

But  the  hired  man  he  sits  down  clost  by 
En  squirts  en  squirts  en  squirts! 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  397 

ENCOURAGEMENT 

By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

Who  dat  knockin'  at  de  do'? 
Why,  Ike  Johnson — yes,  fu'  sho'! 

Come  in,  Ike.     I's  mighty  glad 

You  come  down.    I  t'ought  you's  mad 
At  me  'bout  de  othah  night, 
An'  was  stayin'  'way  fu'  spite. 

Say,  now,  was  you  mad  fu'  true 

W'en  I  kin'  o'  laughed  at  you? 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

'Tain't  no  use  a-lookin'  sad, 
An'  a-mekin'  out  you's  mad ; 

Ef  you's  gwine  to  be  so  glum, 

Wondah  why  you  evah  come. 
I  don't  lak  nobidy  'roun' 
Dat  jes'  shet  dey  mouf  an'  frown — 

Oh,  now,  man,  don't  act  a  dunce! 

Cain't  you  talk?     I  tol'  you  once, 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

Wha'd  you  come  hyeah  fu'  to-night? 
Body'd  t'ink  yo'  haid  ain't  right. 

I's  done  all  dat  I  kin  do — 

Dressed  perticler,  jes'  fu'  you; 
Reckon  I'd  a'  bettah  wo* 
My  ol'  ragged  calico. 

Aftah  all  de  pains  I's  took, 

Cain't  you  tell  me  how  I  look? 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 
-Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  and  used  by  arrangement. 

WHEN  DE  CO'N  PONE'S  HOT 
By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 

Seems  to  slip  a  cog,  an'  go 
Jes'  a-rattlin'  down  creation, 

Lak  an  ocean's  overflow; 


398  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  do  woiT  jes'  stahts  a-spinnin' 

Lak  a  picaninny's  top, 
An'  yo'  cup  o'  joy  is  brimmin' 

'Twell  it  seems  about  to  slop, 
An'  you  feel  jes'  lak  a  racah, 

Dat  is  trainin'  fu'  to  trot — 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin* 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  you  set  down  at  de  table, 

Kin'  o'  weary  lak  an'  sad, 
An'  you'se  jes'  a  little  tiahed 

An'  purhaps  a  little  mad ; 
How  yo'  gloom  tu'ns  into  gladness, 

How  yo'  joy  drives  out  de  doubt 
When  de  oven  do'  is  opened, 

An'  de  smell  comes  po'in  out; 
Why  de  'lectric  light  o'  Heaven 

Seems  to  settle  on  de  spot, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  de  cabbage  pot  is  steamin' 

An'  de  bacon's  good  an'  fat, 
When  de  chittlin's  is  a  sputter'n' 

So's  to  show  you  whah  dey's  at; 
Tek  away  yo'  sody  biscuit, 

Tek  away  yo'  cake  an'  pie, 
Fu'  de  glory  time  is  comin', 

An'  it's  'proachin'  mighty  nigh, 
An'  you  want  to  jump  an'  hollah, 

Dough  you  know  you'd  bettah  not, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

I  have  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  sermons, 
An'  I've  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  prayers, 

An'  I've  listened  to  some  singin' 
Dat  has  tuck  me  up  de  stairs 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  399 

Of  de  Glory-Lan'  an'  set  me 

Jes'  below  de  Mastah's  tr'one, 
An'  have  lef  my  hea't  a-singin' 

In  a  happy  af tah  tone ; 
But  dem  wu'ds  so  sweetly  murmured 

Seem  to  tech  de  softes'  spot, 
When  my  mammy  says  de  blessin', 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 
— Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  arrange- 
ment. 

THE  COURTIN' 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen. 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 

With  a  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in, — 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tel  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  herl 
An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's  arm  thet  Gran'  the  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 


400  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  very  room,  'cause  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An*  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dog-rose  bloomin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A-l, 
Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'; 

None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells,— 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  'o  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinky  like  curled  maple, 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  had  such  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My  1  when  he  made  Ole  Hundred  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bonnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to've  got  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin'-sure  he's  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  401 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  l'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle; 
His  heart  kept  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 

Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 
An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 

Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 

"Wal  ...  no  ...  I  come  designin' " — 
"To  see  my  Ma?     She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 

Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 
Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other, 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I'd  better  call  agin;" 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister"; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  as  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 


402  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressing 
Tell  mother  see  how  matters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  next  Sunday. 


A  RAINY  DAY 
By  Ellye  Howell  Glover 

I  simply  cannot  understand 

Why  grown-ups  always  say, 
"Don't  spend  your  money,  little  boy; 

Save  for  a  rainy  day." 

,.     • 

Once,  when  the  circus  was  in  town 
I  asked  Bob  for  a  quarter ; 

He  said,  "You're  so  extravagant, 
For  shame ;  I  think  you'd  oughter — 

"Save  all  your  pennies ;  after  while 
You'll  need  them,  silly  baby ; 

For  if  you  spend  them  all,  you'll  go 
Out  to  the  poorhouse — maybe." 

And  so  I  waited  till  next  time 
When  it  rained  cats  and  dogs; 

I  took  the  big  umbrella,  and 
Put  on  my  oldest  togs. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  403 

And  when  they  stopped  me  with  the  words 

I  knew  of  course  they'd  say, 
I  hollered,  "I  must  spend  my  dime, 

Cause  it's  a  rainy  day." 


SCHOOL'S  COMMENCED 

By  Leonard  G.  Nattkemper 

Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go — 

For  school's  commenced  again,  you  know; 

An*  now  I'll  have  to  be  polite, 

An'  watch  my  words  wif  all  my  might. 

I  wish  the  school  'ud  blow  away, 
Or  teachers  all  were  sick  to-day; 
For  nen  I'd  be  just  what  I  am, 
An'  play  all  day  wif  Jake  an'  Sam. 

I  guess  us  boys  'ud  ruther  be 

The  pirates  on  a  stormy  sea, 

That  shoot  wif  guns  an'  cut  wif  knives, 

Than  spend  in  school  most  all  our  lives. 

I  can't  see  why  Ma  thinks  'at  school 
Is  better  place  than  swimmin'  pool; 
Or  that  I'll  learn  more  in  a  book 
Than  from  my  pal,  the  flowin'  brook. 

It  may  be  so,  but  I  don't  care, 
I'd  ruther  be  a-dreamin'  there 
How  fine  it  is  to  be  like  men, 
An'  never  go  to  school  again. 

My  Ma  an'  Pa  both  said  that  they 
Would  be  so  glad  when  I'm  away; 
An'  so,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go — 
For  school's  commenced  again,  you  know. 


404  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

UNDERSTAENDLICH 
By  Edmund  Vance  Cooke 
(abridged) 

Dhe  contrariest  t'ing  on  dhe  erd  is  men, 
Aber  wimmens  arr  twice  so  contrary  again, 
Andt  I  am  twice  so  contrary  as  you, 
Andt  you  arr  as  worse  as  dhe  worst  one  too; 
Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

You  like  to  haf  hoonger  by  dinner,  you  say, 
Aber  vhy  do  you  eadt,  so  dat  hoonger  go  'vay? 
You  like  to  be  tired,  so  you  schleep  like  a  top, 
Andt  you  like  to  go  schleep,  'so  dhat  tired  feeling  shtop ; 
Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

You  like  to  haf  sugar  on  sauer  t'ings  you  eadt 
Andt  you  like  to  haf  sauer  mit  dhe  t'ings  vhat  arr  sweet, 
You  like  to  be  cold  when  dhe  vetter  is  hot; 
Andt  it  is  cold,  ach,  how  varm  you  vould  got ! 
Now,  aindt  dhat  zo? 

How  you  shdare  at  dhe  man  vhat  can  valk  up  dhe  street 
On  his  hands,  yet  you  valk  twice  so  goodt  on  your  feet, 
Vhat  a  long  mind  you  haf,  if  I'm  in  your  debt, 
Budt  if  you  arr  in  mine,  O,  how  quick  you  forget! 
Now,  aindt  dhat  zo? 

Are  you  single  ?    You  like  to  be  married,  of  course. 
Are  you  married?     Most  likely  you  like  a  divorse! 
Andt  if  you  vas  get  unmarried,  why  dhen 
You  go  righd  avay  and  got  married  again. 
Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

It  is  bedter  to  laugh ;  it  is  foolish  to  fight 
Yoost  because  I  am  wrong  and  because  you  ain'd  right, 
It  is  better  to  laugh  mit  dhe  vorld,  up  and  down 
From  dhe  sole  of  our  headt  to  the  foot  of  our  crown ; 
Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  405 

Zo,  dhen  you  laugh  at  me  andt  dhen  I  laugh  at  you, 
Andt  dhe  more  dhat  you  laugh  vhy  dhe  more  I  laugh,  too, 
Andt  ve  laugh  till  ve  cry !  Vhen  ve  cry,  aber  dhen, 
Ve  will  bot'  feel  zo  goot  ve  go  laughing  again ! 
Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 


A  THURRU'  REST 

Anonymous 

Examination's  over  'n'  I  don't  care  if  I  passed, 

An'  I  don't  care  if  I  didn't  f er  vacation's  come  at  last ! 

I  thought  'twould  never  git  here,  fer  the  days  dragged  by  as  slow 

As  Davy  Jones's  ma,  who  calls  'n'  don't  know  when  to  go. 

Pop  says  I  ort  to  go  to  work,  but  ma  says  she  knows  best, 

'N'  what  a  boy  of  my  age  needs  is  just  a  thurru'  rest. 

So  me  an'  Dave  '11  get  up  every  mornin'  bright  'n'  soon, 
An'  pitch  'n'  ketch  till  breakfast,  'n'  bat  up  flies  till  noon. 
'Cause  after  dinner  every  day  the  Hustlehards — his  nine — 
Is  goin'  to  play  a  series  fer  the  champeenship  with  mine: 
The  one  behind  at  dark  has  got  to  say  the  other's  best. 
Gee !  ain't  I  glad  vacation's  here  'n'  I  got  time  to  rest. 

Then  I'm  a-goin'  to  learn  the  other  fellers  how  to  dive, 

An'  rassle  Billy  Potter,  best  thirteen  in  twenty-five! 

'N'  after  supper  Dave  'n'  I  are  goin'  to  have  a  race, 

Ten  times  around  the  block,  'n'  if  I  win  he'll  bust  my  face. 

That's  what  he  says!     But  he'll  find  out  which  one  of  us  is  best; 

I'm  feeling  pretty  strong  now  since  I'm  havin'  such  a  rest. 

There's  goin'  to  be  a  picnic  'n'  you  bet  yer  life  I'm  goin' ; 
I'm  entered  in  the  swimmin'  race,  'n'  greasy  pole,  'n'  rowin', 
The  sack  race  'n'  potato  race  are  mine,  I  bet  a  dime, 
'N'  in  "the  mile"  I  simply  got  to  win  the  prize  fer  time, 
'Cause  it's  a  ticket  to  the  Gym.     I  like  that  prize  the  best, 
Fer  a  feller  needs  some  exercise  as  well  as  just  a  rest. 

I'm  goin'  to  visit  Uncle's  farm.     He  lets  me  do  the  chores 

'N'  work  just  like  the  farm-hands  do,  right  in  the  fields  out-doors. 


406  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I'm  goin'  to  git  a  bag  to  punch,  so's  I  won't  git  too  fat: 
We're  goin'  to  have  a  six-day  race — I  got  to  train  fer  that. 
I  want  to  do  so  many  things,  I  don't  know  which  is  best; 
I  bet  vacation's  over  'fore  I  get  a  thurru'  rest ! 

NO  SHOOTIN'  OFF  THIS  YEAR 
Anonymous 

There  ain't  no  Declaration.    Naw 

There  ain't  no  Fourth-July. 
There  ain't  no  "free  'n'  equal"  law, 

'N'  Washin'ton  could  lie. 
They  never  dumped  no  Boston  tea; 

It's  fakey,  all  you  hear, 
Fer  pop  says  there  ain't  goin'  to  be 

No  shootin'  off  this  year. 

They  talk  about  pertectin'  us 

To  keep  the  Fourth  in  peace; 
But  we  ain't  makin'  any  fuss, 

Ner  askin'  fer  police. 
We  ain't  afraid  of  smoke  'n'  noise, 

Er  little  lumps  of  lead ; 
*N'  why  should  they  blame  livin'  boys 

Because  some  boys  is  dead? 

It  ain't  my  fault  the  fuse  went  out 

'N'  Tom  went  up  'n'  blew; 
Besides  he's  just  as  well  without 

His  extry  ear  er  two. 
They  cut  off  Oscar's  leg,  but  he 

Don't  seem  to  miss  it  much; 
He'd  beat  us  hoppin'  yet,  if  we 

'Ud  let  him  use  his  crutch. 

It  ain't  my  fault  that  Willie  blew 
His  hand  off,  like  a  chump; 

I  told  him  what  those  big  ones  do; 
He  needn't  'a'  took  the  stump. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  407 

It  ain't  my  fault  a  rocket  flies 

'N'  hits  some  him  er  her; 
Somebody's  got  to  wear  glass  eyes ; 

That's  what  glass  eyes  is  fer! 

It  ain't  my  fault  the  stuff  was  bad 

They  made  Jim's  pistol  of; 
Besides  the  preacher  said,  "We're  glad 

He's  happier  up  above!" 
Bet  I'd  be  happier,  anyhow, 

Most  any  place  but  here, 
Where  they  ain't  goin'  to  allow 

No  shootin'  off  this  yearl 


HAUL  AWAY,  JOE 
By  Charles  Keeler 

O  Oi  wuz  a  loafin'  lubber  but  bedad  I  learned  to  wurrk 
Whin  Oi  loighted  out  o'  County  Corrk  along  wid  Paddy  Burrke. 
We  stowed  abarrd  a  coaster  an'  her  skipper  wuz  a  brick; 
Begorrah  if  yez  didn't  moind,  he'd  boost  yez  wid  a  kick! 
Away,  haal  away,  haal  away,  Joe! 

Th'  pigs  wuz  lane  in  County  Corrk,  th'  men  all  starrved  on  taties, 
But  Oi  shipped  upon  a  Yankee  barrk,  and  better,  faith,  me  fate  is ! 
Och  Oi  hed  an  Irish  darlint,  but  she  ghrew  so  fat  an'  lazy 
Thet  Oi  bounced  her  fur  a  Yankee  gurrl,  an'  surre  but  she's  a  daisy ! 
Away,  haal  away,  haal  away,  Joel 

O  since  Oi  lift  auld  Ireland  Oi've  poaked  thro'  miny  plaices, 

Oi've  wurrked  me  way,  Oi've  armed  me  pay  at  haalin'  shates  an'  braces  ; 

On  farrin'  shorres  Oi've  sot  me  eye  on  gurrls  iv  iv'ry  nashin, 

Me  Yankee  gurrl  hes  ne'er  a  mate  throughhout  th'  woid  creashin ! 

Away,  haal  away,  haal  away,  Joe ! 
— Copyright  by  the  publisher,  A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco,  and 
used  by  his  kind  permission. 


408  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

BLACK  SAILORS'  CHANTY 

By  Charles  Keeler 

Yo  ho,  ma  hahties,  da's  a  hurricane  a-brewin', 

Fo'  de  cook  he  hasn't  nuffin  fo'  de  sailah-men  a-stewin', — 

He  am  skulkin'  in  his  bunk,  am  dat  niggah  of  a  cook, 

An'  his  chaowdah  'm  in  de  ocean  while  de  pot  am  on  de  hook. 

You  can  chaw  a  chunk  o'  hahd-tack  mos'  as  tendah  as  a  brick, 

But  d'ain't  no  smokin'  'possum  when  de  cook  am  lyin'  sick. 

Ah  remembah  in  de  cane-fiel'  we  hed  pone-cakes  ebry  day; 

Slack  yo  line  a  bit,  ma  hahties  1  pull  away !  pull  away ! 

An'  Ah  'low  Ah'm  feelin'  homesick,  jes'  t'  mention  ob  ma  honey, — 

She's  a  libbin'  at  de  cabin  an'  she's  out  o'  does  an'  money. 

While  we  chaw  a  chunk  o'  hahd-tack  mos'  as  tendah  as  a  brick, 

But  d'ain't  no  smokin'  'possum  while  de  cook  am  lyin'  sick. 

O  ma  po'  neglected  Liza  an'  her  piccaninny  Jo, 
Ah's  ben  roamin'  sence  Ah  left  her  case  Ah  wanted  fo'  to  go  1 
Ah's  ben  hustlin'  roun'  de  islands,  navigatin'  all  de  sea, 
While  ma  honey  specs  a  hungry  shark  done  stuff  hisself  wid  me. 
While  we  chaw  a  chunk  o'  hahd-tack  mos'  as  tendah  as  a  brick, 
But  d'ain't  no  smokin'  'possum  while  de  cook  am  lyin'  sick. 
— Copyright  by  the  publisher,  A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco,  and 
used  by  his  kind  permission. 

JOSIAH  AND  SYMANTHY 
By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

Josiah  loved  Symanthy 

And  Symanthy  loved  Josi', 
Which  you  couldn't  fail  to  notice 

In  the  rollin'  of  the  eye ; 
But  they  never  told  each  other, 

On  account  o'  bein'  shy, 
'Pears  to  me! 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  409 

But  they  kept  right  on  a-lovin' 

Jes  like  any  couple  would. 
Weren't  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't, 

Ner  no  reason  why  they  should, 
'Cause  there  wa'n't  no  p'ints  about  'em 

Cupid  reckoned  on  as  good, 
'Pears  to  me! 

Now  this  love  disease  is  mortal, 

'Cause  it  tackles  mortals  so, 
An'  the  oftener  you  have  it 

The  worse  it  seems  to  grow; 
More  you  try  to  hide  the  symptoms, 

More  the  symptoms  seem  to  show, 
'Pears  to  mel 

Josiah  was  uneasy 

When  Symanthy  wasn't  near, 
An'  he  got  still  more  uneasy 

Whenever  she'd  appear. 
But  sittin'  down  beside  'er 

Got  his  joints  clean  out  o'  gear, 
'Pears  to  me! 

He  put  his  arm  behind  'er, 

An'  then  he  pulled  it  back 
Until  Symanthy  giggled: 

"Guess  yer  gittin'  on  the  track 
By  the  way  yer  flusticatin' ; 

Kind  a-lookin'  fer  a  smack, 
'Pears  to  me !" 

Then  Josiah  stopped  a  minute, 

Jes  consid'rin'  how  'twould  be 
An'  how  best  to  go  about  it, 

'Cause  he  hadn't  much  idee; 
But  he  knew  'twas  waitin'  fer  him, 

By  Symanthy's  shy  te-he! 
'Pears  to  me! 


410  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  Symanthy  got  pretending, 
She  was  bitin'  off  her  thumb, 

But  she  wasn't — she  was  waitin' 
For  whatever  chose  to  come; 

While  Josiah's  tongue  kept  rollin' 
In  his  cheek,  like  chewin'-gum, 
'Pears  to  me! 

When  Josiah  was  persuaded 
That  Symanthy  wouldn't  shout, 

Wa'n't  a-jokin',  ner  a-foolin', 
Ner  a-fixin'  to  back  out, — 

Then  he  buckled  up  his  courage : 
Kissed  her  cheek  or  thereabout, 
'Pears  to  me! 

Then  he  asked  'er  if  she'd  have  him, 
An'  she  answered:  "What  d'  ye  guess?" 

Said  he  wa'n't  no  good  at  guessin' ; 
So  she  smiled  an'  snickered:  ''Yes! 

Since  I  git  ye  all  fer  nothin' 
I  v  couldn't  do  no  less, 
'Pears  to  me!" 

When  the  Squire  asked  'em  the  questions— 
On  the  weddin'-day  they  set — 

Which  some  people  answer  quickly 
An'  about  as  soon  forget, — 

Symanthy  said :     "I  reckin  !" 
An'  Josiah  said :    "You  bet !" 
'Pears  to  me! 

When  they  took  their  weddin'  journey 
Up  an'  down  the  city  street, 

Josiah  told  Symanthy 
That  he  guessed  they'd  have  a  treat : 

So  they  went  an'  got  some  oysters — 
What  they  never  yet  had  eat, 
'Pears  to  me! 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  411 

Then  Josiah,  sort  o'  thinkin', 

Said:  "I  thought  they  had  a  shell; 

What  the  slipp'ry  things  resemble 
I'll  be  switched  if  I  can  tell; 

An'  they  look  so  pale  an'  sickly 
Kind  o'  reckon  they  ain't  well, 
'Pears  to  me!" 

"I  wonder  how  they  eat  'em?" 
i      Said  Symanthy,  "How'd  I  know? 
I've  eat  everythin'  that  you  have 

Ever  since  you've  been  my  beau! 
But  I'll  bet  a  cent  ye  dasn't 
Put  one  in  an'  let  'er  go ! 
'Pears  to  me!" 

While  Symanthy  eat  the  crackers 

Josiah  let  one  slip; 
Said  it  didn't  taste  like  nothin' ; 

Wasn't  ripe ;  then  closed  his  lip ; 
Vowed  he  wouldn't  eat  another, 

Fear  'twould  spile  his  weddin'  trip, 
'Pears  to  me! 

When  the  tip-expectin'  beggar 

Bowed,  an'  smilin'  meekly,  said: 
"Colonel  hasn't  feed  the  waitah !" 
Then  Josiah  jerked  his  head — 
"You  can  feed  on  them  'ere  oysters 
If  the  pesky  things  ain't  dead, 
'Pears  to  me !" 
— Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


412  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

CHARLIE  JONES'S  BAD  LUCK 

By  A.  J.  Waterhouse 

(As  discussed  by  little  Willie) 

I  don't  care  if  Charlie  Jones 

Is  better  'an  I  be ; 
An'  I  don't  care  if  teacher  says 

He's  smart  'long  side  er  me; 
An'  I  don't  care,  w'en  vis'tors  come, 

If  she  on  him  does  call; 
He  ain't  got  measles,  like  I  have — 

He  don't  have  luck  at  all. 

He  never  had  the  whoopin'  cough, 

Ner  mos'  cut  off  his  thumb, 
Ner  ever  fell  an'  broke  his  leg 

An'  had  a  doctor  come. 
He  hardly  ever  stubs  his  toe, 

An'  if  he  does,  he'll  bawl ! 
There's  nothin'  special  comes  to  him — 

He  don't  have  luck  at  all. 

An'  I  don't  care  if  he  can  say 
More  tex's  an'  things  'an  I; 

He  never  burnt  both  hands  to  once 
'Long  'bout  the  Fo'th  July. 

He  never  had  the  chicken-pox, 
Ner  p'isen  oak — las'  Fall! 

He  can't  be  proud  o'  nothin'  much- 
He  don't  have  luck  at  all. 

— From  "Lays  for  Little  Chaps. 

KISSING'S  NO  SIN 

Anonymous 

Some  say  that  kissing's  a  sin; 

But  I  think  it's  nane  ava, 
For  kissing  has  wonn'd  in  this  warld 

Since  ever  that  there  was  twa. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  413 

O,  if  it  wasna  lawfu', 

Lawyers  wadna  allow  it; 
If  it  wasna  holy, 

Ministers  wadna  do  it 

If  it  wasna  modest, 

Maidens  wadna  take  it; 
If  it  wasna  plenty, 

Puir  folks  wadna  get  it 


IF  I  DARST 
By  Eugene  Field 

I'd  like  to  be  a  cowboy,  an'  ride  a  firey  hoss 

Way  out  into  the  big  and  boundless  West; 
I'd  kill  the  bears  an'  catamounts  an'  wolves  I  come  across, 

An'  I'd  pluck  the  bal'  head  eagle  from  his  nest! 

With  my  pistol  at  my  side, 
I  would  roam  the  prarers  wide, 
An'  to  scalp  the  savage  Injun  in  his  wigwam  would  I  ride — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darsen't. 

I'd  like  to  go  to  Afriky  an'  hunt  the  lions  there, 

An'  the  biggest  ollyf unts  you  ever  saw ! 
I  would  track  the  fierce  gorilla  to  his  equatorial  lair, 

An'  beard  the  cannybull  that  eats  folks  raw. 

I'd  chase  the  pizen  snakes 
An'  the  pottimus  that  makes 
His  nest  down  at  the  bottom  of  unfathomable  lakes — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darsen't. 

I  would  I  were  a  pirut  to  sail  the  ocean  blue, 

With  a  big  black  flag  a-flyin'  overhead ; 
I  would  scour  the  billowy  main  with  my  gallant  pirut  crew, 

An'  dye  the  sea  a  gouty,  gory  red. 


414         DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

With  my  cutlass  in  my  hand 
On  the  quarterdeck  I'd  stand 
And  to  deeds  of  heroism  I'd  incite  my  pirut  band — 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darsen't. 

And,  if  I  darst,  I'd  lick  my  pa  for  the  times  that  he's  licked  me, 

I'd  lick  my  brother  an'  my  teacher,  too, 
I'd  lick  the  fellers  that  call  round  on  sister  after  tea, 

An'  I'd  keep  on  lickin'  folks  till  I  got  through. 

You  bet.    I'd  run  away  • 

From  my  lessons  to  my  play, 
An'  I'd  shoo  the  hens,  and  tease  the  cat,  an'  kiss  the  girls  all  day— 
If  I  darst;  but  I  darsen't. 

DERNDEST  GAL  I  EVER  KNOWED 
By  Herbert  Bashford 

Derndest  gal  I  ever  knowed, 
Neatest  gal  I  ever  seen, 
Lived  down  in  the  Red  Ravine 
Jest  below  the  county  road, 
Guess  she  wuz  about  sixteen — 
Sophy  wuz  her  name,  an'  she 
Wuz  ez  cute  ez  cute  kin  be. 

When  I'd  go  t'  town  I  brung 
Her  the  biggest  lot  o'  stuff, 
Pop-corn,  likrish,  'n'  enough 
Candy  fer  t'  fill  a  room. 
Once  she  hit  me  with  a  broom 
Cuz  I  kissed  her  on  the  cheek, 
An'  the  midget  wouldn't  speak 
T  me  fer,  perhaps,  a  week. 

When  I'd  raise  my  eyes  to  hern 
Jeminny !  my  cheeks  'ud  burn 
An'  git  redder  'n'  a  beet. 
Oh,  she  looked  jest  powerful  sweet! 
When  I'd  try  to  call  her  dear, 
Why,  I'd  feel  so  doggoned  queer 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  415 

That  I'd  lean  ag'in'  th'  fence 
'Zif  I  didn'  hev  no  sense, 
Twist  th'  buttons  on  my  vest, 
Ast  her  who  she  liked  th'  best, 
Ast  her  if  it  wuzn't  Bill, 
Er  old  Jones  thet  run  th'  mill, 
Keep  a-hintin'  'round,  yuh  see, 
Till  she'd  up  an'  say  'twuz  me. 

I  wuz  jellus  o'  Jim  Pike, 

Jellus  ez  th'  very  deuce 

Though  there  didn't  seem  much  use, 

Fer  his  freckles  wuz  so  thick, 

An'  his  hair  wuz  so  like  brick 

Thet  a  feller  one  day  said 

Yuh  could  toast  a  hunk  o'  bread 

Ef  yuh'd  hold  it  nigh  his  head. 

He  wuz  awkarder'n  sin, 

Never  fished  along  the  crick 

But  he'd  hev  t'  tumble  in. 

Sophy  'peared  t'  pity  Jim, 
While  I  thought  if  I  wuz  him 
I'd  go  off  'n'  hide  somewhere, 
Else  put  plaster  on  my  hair. 
But  this  homely,  lantern-jawed 
Lookin'  cuss  stood  'round  'n'  chawed 
On  a  plug  o'  terbacker 
Half  his  time  'n'  talked  t'  her 
Of  his  love,  till  I  jest  told 
Him  t'  mosey,  an'  he  rolled 
Up  his  sleeves  'n'  landed  me 
Plumb  betwixt  th'  eyes,  then  he 
Went  to  Sophy,  an',  sir,  she 
Married  him  !     The  pesky  mule ! 
Wuzn't  she  a  reg'ler  fool? 
I  wuz  jest  tetotally  bio  wed — 
Derndest  gal  I  ever  knowed! 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


416  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ON  NEWBRASKY'S  FERTILE  SHORE 

By  Herbert  Bashford 

Oh,  I  am  so  orf ul  humsick !    An'  I  feel  so  wretched  queer ! 

Ephrum,  he  has  gone  a-ridin'  on  a  wild  eclectric  keer, 

Rhody — that's  my  only  darter — she  has  gone  an'  left  me,  tew, 

Both  a  trapesin'  'round  like  ijits — wonder  what's  th'  next  they'll  do? 

They  don't  seem  to  think  they're  darin'  Providence  right  in  th'  face, 

Ridin'  without  hoss  er  engine  'n'  goin'  at  a  break-neck  pace : 

Course  I  needn't  stand  here  waitin',  both  insisted  I  should  come, 

But  I  vow  I'll  not  be  reckless  when  I  am  so  f er  from  hum : 

Clear  out  here  by  th'  Pacific,  jist  as  fur  as  we  kin  git, 

An'  if  we  stay  here  much  longer  I  declare  I'll  hev  a  fit. 

It's  th'  most  deceivin'  kentry  as  ever'  one'll  say 

Ever'  drap  o'  water  salty  in  th'  hull  o'  Frisco  bay. 

Oh,  I've  tramped  these  pesky  sidewalks  till  my  feet  is  lame  an'  sore, 

An'  a-yearnin'  ever'  minute  fur  Newbrasky's  fertile  shore ! 

Then  they  brag  about  their  scenery!    Calif orny!    Humph!     O  dear! 

Scenery!     Well,  jest  speaking  plainly,  I  don't  see  no  scenery  here: 

Nothin'  but  the  mount'in  ranges  rarin'  up  so  'tarnal  high 

Thet  a  buddy  kint  look  nowheres  'cept  the  middle  o'  th'  sky. 

Mount'ins,  everlastin'  mount'ins,  hills  'n'  woods  'n'  rocks  'n'  snow, 

Where  th'  scenery  is  they're  braggin'  on  I'm  th'  one  as  wants  t'  know. 

Let  'em  stand  in  Lincoln  county  jest  aback  our  cowyard  fence, 

An'  if  they  don't  say  there's  scenery  they  hain't  got  a  mite  o'  sense; 

Why  yuh  kin  look  fur  miles  around  yuh  an'  see  nothin'  but  th'  flat 

Level  prairie  in  th'  sunshine  kivered  in  its  grassy  mat. 

That  is  scenery — yuh  kin  look  there  jest  as  fur  as  yuh  kin  see 

With  no  hills  a-interposin',  er  no  rocks,  er  airy  tree. 

Oh,  I've  told  my  husband,  Ephrum,  that  I'd  gallavant  no  more 

When  ag'in  I'd  sot  my  foot  on  old  Newbrasky's  fertile  shore. 

Then  I'm  worried  so  'bout  Rhody,  fur  she's  missin'  ever'  day 
All  her  lessons  on  th'  melojun  that  paw  bought  fur  her  last  May, 
An'  she  could  perform  amazin';  she  could  play  "Old  Hundred"  nice 
An'  another  song  beginnin'  "Happy  Day  that  Fixed  My  Ch'ice." 
Yes,  th'  singin'  teacher  told  me  as  we  parted  at  th'  keers, 
He  was  shore  she'd  play  th'  organ  in  th'  church  'fore  many  years. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  417 

Now  her  notion's  highkerflutin',  a  pianner  she  wants  now, 

An'  her  paw  sez  he  will  get  it  soon  as  he  kin  sell  a  cow, 

Sez  he  kin  dispose  o'  Muly — I  jest  told  him  no  sir-e-e 

Not  fur  no  new-fangled  nonsense — Muly's  my  cow,  an'  you  see 

He's  jest  got  a  spite  ag'in  her  'cause  she's  got  a  lengthy  tail 

An'  in  fightin'  skeeters  sometimes  whicks  it  in  th'  milkin'  pail. 

Oh,  I'll  be  the  gladdest  mortal  when  I  reach  th'  kitchen  door 

Of  that  dear  old  farmhouse  standin'  on  Newbrasky's  fertile  shore  1 

No,  I  don't  enjoy  th'  city  where  the  wimmen  folks  is  dressed 
Monday  an'  clean  through  till  Saturday  all  in  their  Sunday  best. 
I  jest  like  to  ketch  my  wrapper  up  'n'  pin  it  'round  my  waist, 
Carin'  not  a  single  copper  if  my  shoe-string  comes  unlaced, 
Then  go  out  an'  milk  old  Muly  an'  turn  out  th'  spotted  calf 
While  th'  chickens  giggle  'round  me  an'  the  speckled  roosters  laff, 
Then  go  in  th'  summer  kitchen,  set  me  down  an'  churn  a  spell, 
Till  time  comes  t'  put  th'  victuals  on  an'  ring  th'  dinner  bell. 
Yes,  I  love  th'. peaceful  quiet  o'  th'  farm  where  it's  so  still, 
Nothin'  but  th'  ducks  a-quackin'  'n'  pigs  a-squealin'  fur  their  swill, 
Nothin'  but  th'  geese  a-clackin'  'n'  the  bawlin'  o'  th'  cows, 
An'  th'  nickerin'  o'  th'  hosses  as  they're  comin'  t'  th'  house; 
Oh,  I  want  t'  leave  th'  city  with  its  racket  an'  its  roar 
An'  git  back  there  t'  the  silence  o'  Newbrasky's  fertile  shore ! 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

"FUZZY-WUZZY" 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

We've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas, 

An'  some  of  'em  was  brave  an'  some  was  not : 

The  paythan  an'  the  Zulu  an'  Burmese ; 

But  the  Fuzzy  was  the  finest  o'  the  lot. 

We  never  got  a  ha'porth's  change  of  'im: 

'E  squatted  in  the  scrub  an'  'ocked  our  'orses, 

'E  cut  our  sentries  up  at  Suakim, 

An'  'e  played  the  cat  an'  banjo  with  our  forces. 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  at  your  'ome  in  the  Sowdan ; 

You're  a  poor  benighted  'eathen  but  a  first-class  fightin'  man ; 

We  give  you  your  certifikit,  and  if  you  want  it  signed 

We'll  come  an'  have  a  romp  with  you  whenever  you're  inclined. 


418  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

We  took  our  chanst  among  the  Kyber  hills, 

The  Boers  knocked  us  silly  at  a  mile, 

The  Burman  guv  us  Irriwaddy  chills, 

An'  a  Zulu  impi  dished  us  up  in  style ; 

But  all  we  ever  got  from  such  as  they 

Was  pop  to  what  the  Fuzzy  made  us  swaller; 

We  'eld  our  bloomin'  own,  the  papers  say, 

But  man  for  man  the  Fuzzy  knocked  us  'oiler. 

Then  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  an'  the  missis  and  the  kid ; 

Our  orders  was  to  break  you,  an'  of  course  we  went  and  did. 

We  sloshed  you  with  Martinis,  an'  it  wasn't  'ardly  fair ; 

But  for  all  the  odds  agin  you,  Fuzzy- Wuz,  you  bruk  the  square. 

'E  'asn't  got  no  papers  of  'is  own, 

'E  'asn't  got  no  medals  nor  rewards 

So  we  must  certify  the  skill  'e's  shown 

In  usin'  of  'is  long  two-handled  swords ; 

When  'e's  'oppin'  in  an'  out  among  the  bush 

With  'is  coffm-'eaded  shield  an'  shovel-spear, 

A  'appy  day  with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush 

Will  last  a  'ealthy  Tommy  for  a  year. 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  an'  your  friends  which  is  no  more, 

If  we  'adn't  lost  some  mess-mates  we  would  help  you  to  deplore ; 

But  give  an'  take's  the  gospel,  an'  we'll  call  the  bargain  fair, 

For  if  you  'ave  lost  more  than  us,  you  crumbled  up  the  square ! 

'E  rushes  at  the  smoke  when  we  let  drive, 

An',  before  we  know,  'e's  'ackin'  at  our  'ead; 

'E's  all  'ot  sand  an'  ginger  when  alive, 

An'  'e's  generally  shammin'  when  'e's  dead. 

'E's  a  daisy,  'e's  a  duck,  'e's  a  lamb ! 

'E's  a  injia-rubber  idiot  on  the  spree, 

'E's  the  on'y  thing  that  doesn't  care  a  damn 

For  the  Regiment  o'  British  Infantree. 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  at  your  'ome  in  the  Sowdan ; 

You're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but  a  first-class  fightin'  man ; 

An'  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  with  your  'ayrick  'ead  of  'air — 

You  big  black  boundin'  beggar— for  you  bruk  a  British  square. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  419 

THOUGHTS  FROM  BUB 

By  Leonard  G.  Nattkemper 

My  name  is  Bub,  'cuz  papa  sed 
He'd  ruther  call  me  so  than  Ned. 
But  mamma  calls  me  'ist  her  beau — 
Wen  I  am  good,  I  mean,  you  know. 

So,  I  'ist  hardly  knows  my  name 
I  guess — 1  bet  'ist  all  the  same, 
I'm  papa's  boy  an'  mamma's  dear, 
An'  I  be  glad  'ist  'cuz  I'm  here. 

It's  hard  to  make  a  name,  I  s'pose, 
Wen  they  have  used  'bout  all  o'  those 
That  they  have  heard  or  that  they've  read — 
O'  course,  there's  more  w'en  people's  dead. 

An'  now  I  wonder  if  that  I 
Will  leave  my  name  w'en  I  must  die. 
I  guess  it's  so,  'cuz  we  'ist  call 
Angel's  last  name  for  them  all. 

I'm  glad  I'm  not  an  angel  yet, 
Whose  names  are  less  than  mine,  I  bet, 
Still  it  must  be  nice  to  see 
All  the  folks  that  used  to  be. 

Oh,  my,  I  don't  know  what  to  say 
About  my  names,  'cuz  every  day 
My  mamma  finds  a  new  one,  too — 
I'm  'fraid  she's  left  no  names  for  you. 

The  bestest  thing  in  all  this  worl' 
Is,  I'm  a  boy  an'  not  a  girl, 
Girls  are  good  as  they  can  be, 
But  boys  are  best  you  must  agree. 

I  guess  I've  tol'  you  all  I  know 

From  where  names  come  to  where  they  go; 

But  'member  now  'ist  what  I  sed, 

My  name  is  Bub  instead  o'  Ned. 


420  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  VEGETABLE  MAN 

By  Leonard  G.  Nattkemper 

A  Chinaman  comes  to  our  house  each  day 
Wif  horses  that's  colored  both  red  an'  gray, 
An'  wagon  'ist  full  of  things  to  eat — 
An'  up  I  climbs  on  his  big  high  seat. 

This  Chinaman's  name  I  cannot  tell — 
But  "veg'table  man"  will  do  as  well; 
For  corn  an'  beans  and  cabbage,  too, 
He  grows  in  the  fields  for  me  an'  you. 

An'  w'en  it's  time  to  drive  to  town 
He  brings  his  wagon  'ist  loaded  down 
With  veg't'ble  things  an'  peaches  too — 
He'll  peel  you  one  if  I  ask  him  to. 

Gee,  but  I  love  this  Chinaman; 
He  stops  an'  plays,  an'  one  day  ran 
Aroun'  his  wagon  clear  out  of  sight — 
But  I  found  him  there  an'  held  on  tight. 

Then  up  he  lifts  me  way  up  high, 
An'  laughs  again  wif  his  funny  eye — 
I  forgot  to  tell  that  he  can  see 
'1st  half  so  well  as  you  an'  me. 

'Cause  one  day  w'en  he's  'ist  a  boy 
An'  playin'  wif  a  home-made  toy, 
It  flew  aroun'  an'  hit  his  face, 
An'  left  that  funny  open  place. 

But  I  don't  care  if  he  is  queer, 
He  sees  enough  to  know  I'm  here, 
An'  finds  the  time  to  stop  an'  play 
W'en  I  am  lonesome  through  the  day. 

But  ma  an'  dad  are  not  so  kind 
As  veg't'ble  man  whose  eye  is  blind. 
I  guess  I  love  them  all  I  can, 
But  most  I  love  my  Chinaman. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT  421 

IMMIGRATION 
By  Wallace  Irwin 

Ezekiel,  the  Puritan, 

Thus  lifts  his  protestation : 
"By  ginger,  I'm  American, 

And  don't  like  immigration. 
Naow  I  jest  guess  I  got  here  fust 

And  know  what  I'm  abaout, 
When  I  declar'  we'll  all  go  bust 

Or  keep  them  aliens  out." 

Max  Heidelburg,  the  German,  says: 

"Jah  also.     Right,  mein  frendt. 
If  ve  dot  foreign  trash  admit 

Our  woes  will  nefer  endt. 
I  am  Americans  as  you 

Und  villing  to  ge-shout 
'Hurray  mit  red  und  vite  und  plue, 

Und  kiip  dose  aliens  oudt!'" 

Ike  Diamondstein,  the  Jew,  exclaims : 

"Ah,  Izzy,  ain't  dat  grandt ! 
Ve  Yangees  haf  such  nople  aims 

Und  vill  togeder  standt, 
Ve've  got  der  goods,  ve're  nach'ralized — 

Vat  hinters  us  from  shouten 
Americavich  is  civilzized, 

So  keep  dose  aliens  outenT" 

Pietro  Garibaldi  says: 

"Here  ever-r-ry  man  is  king. 
I  catch-a  da  fun,  I  mak-a  da  mon, 

I  like-a  da  ever-r-yt'ing. 
American  he  gent-a-man — 

Watch-a  da  Dago  shout, 
'Sell-a  da  fruit,  shin-a  da  boot, 

Keep-a  da  alien  out  1' " 


422  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  Irishman  vociferates : 

"Sure,  Mike,  it's  sahft  as  jelly. 
I'll  take  the  shtick  and  crack  the  pates 

Of  ivery  foreign  Kelly. 
If  it's  the  call  o'  polyticks, 

Then  I'm  the  la'ad  to  shout, 
'Down  wid  th'  Da-agos  an'  th'  Micks, 

An'  keep  th'  aliens  out !' " 

But  covered  with  ancestral  tan, 

Beside  his  wigwam  door, 
The  only  real  American 

Counts  idle  talk  a  bore. 
"Ugh!    Pale-face  man  he  mighty  thief. 

Much  medicine  talk  about — 
It  heap  too  late  for  Injun  chief 

To  keep-um  alien  out," 


PATHETIC  SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 

PASSIM  BY1 

By  Bombardier  B.  Bumpas 

Well,  I  went  an'  joined  the  army,  an'  I  done  my  little  bit— 
'Ere's  the  bloke  wot  put  my  pot  on ;  yes,  I  keeps  'im  in  my  kit — 
No,  'e  ain't  no  proper  soft-nose;  just  the  end  off  on  the  sly; 
'E's  the  only  one  wot  got  me — but  I've  'ered  'em  passin'  by, 
God  A'mighty !     Yes,  I've  'eard  'em  passin'  by. 

Passin'  by ;  passin'  by ;  with  a  little  whistlin'  sigh, 

"Nearly  got  you  that  time,  Sonny,  just  a  little  bit  too  high," 

Or  a  crack  like,  "Jack,  look  out  there  :  Keep  yer  'ead  down,  mind  yer  eye  V 

But  they're  gone  an'  far  behind  yer  'fore  you'll  'ear  'em  passin'  by. 

Yes,  I  lay  from  Toosday  mornin'  till  the  Wensday  afternoon ; 

'En  the  Black  Watch  took  their  trenches  'en  it  woke  me  from  a  swoon. 

I  was  flamin',  nearly  mad  wi'  thirst  an'  pain,  an'  fit  to  cry, 

But  I  cheered  'em  as  they  trampled  on  me  carcus,  passin?  by. 

God  A'mighty!    Yes,  I  cheered  'em  as  I  'eard  'em  passin'  by. 

Passin'  by ;  passin'  by ;  trippin',  f allin',  gettin'  nigh. 
Gettin'  nearer  to  the  trenches,  'en  you  'eard  a  Tommy  cry : 
"Don't  forget  the  Belgian  wimmen,  nor  the  little  bairns  forbye." 
God !     I  wouldn't  be  a  German  when  them  men  was  passin'  by. 

Then  they  gathered  us  together  an'  they  sorted  out  the  worst — 
Wot  they  called  the  "stretcher  cases" — and  they  'tended  to  us  first, 
They  was  overworked  an'  crowded,  an'  the  Doc  'ud  give  a  sigh — 
"Hopeless,  that  case" — "that  one,  also" — speakin'  softly,  passin'  by. 
God !    They  watched  'im,  silent,  suff'rin',  watchin',  hopin' — passin'  by. 

1  Some  of  the  greatest  literature  of  this  war  has  been  written  by  British  Tommies 
— in  the  trenches  or  in  hospitals ;  but  nothing  finer  or  better  interpreting  the  psy- 
chology of  the  men  at  the  front  has  yet  appeared  in  print  than  this  poem  by 
Bombardier  B.  Bumpas,  of  the  Australian  contingent,  wounded  at  Gallipoli  and 
while  convalescing  in  a  hospital  at  Cairo,  minus  a  leg  and  an  eye. 

423 


424  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Passin'  by ;  passin'  by ;  curt  command  an'  stifled  sigh, 

For  it  ain't  no  place  for  drama,  an'  a  man  'as  got  ter  die ; 

'En  I  thought  I  'eard  a  whimper  an'  a  little  soft  reply— 

"Greater  love*  than  this  hath  no  man"— some  one  speakin'  passin'  by. 

So  they  ships  me  off  to  "Blighty,"  'en  they  sticks  me  in  a  ward, 
I  was  short  a  leg  an'  peeper,  but  they  treats  me  like  a  lord. 
I'd  alius  bin  a  lonely  bloke,  an'  so  I  used  ter  lie 
An'  watch  the  fren's  of  other  men  continual  passin'  by, 
Sisters,  children,  wives,  an'  mothers,  everlastin'  passin'  by. 

Passin'  by ;  passin'  by ;  with  a  smile  or  with  a  sigh ; 
With  their  cigarettes  an'  matches,  flowers  or  shirt  or  pipe  or  tie; 
An'  one  'ud  sometimes  talk  an'  speak — I  used  ter  wonder  why — 
Cos  I  ain't  no  blame  Adonis,  not  ter  notice,  passin'  by. 

I'm  thinkin'  if  the  angels  'ave  a  Union  Jack  around, 
An'  sticks  it  somewhere  prominent  when  Gabriel  starts  to  sound, 
The  people  round  that  flag  will  be  'most  half  the  hosts  on  high — 
The  men  who've  passed,  or  waits  to  pass,  or  now  are  passin'  by, 
Big  'earted  men  an'  wimmen,  white  an'  black,  a-passin'  by. 

Passin'  by;  passin'  by;  just  to  keep  that  flag  on  high, 
An'  all  that  flag  'as  stood  for  in  the  days  that's  now  gone  by; 
An'  when  they  pass  before,  I'm  sure  'E'll  listen  to  their  cry, 
An'  'E'll  treat  'em  very  gentle,  an'  forgive  'em,  passin'  by. 

JEANIE  MORRISON 
By  William  Motherwell 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltanes  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  'gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 


PATHETIC  425 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time, — sad  time!  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  said 

We  cleeked  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  the  speel  the  braes, — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, — 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 


426  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

0  mornin'  life!     O  mornin'  luve! 
O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  summer  blossoms  sprang! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, — 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled, — unsung ! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Gin  I  hae  bin  to  thee 

As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thocts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 


PATHETIC  427 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luv  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygone  days  and  me ! 

CUDDLE  DOON 

By  Alexander  Anderson 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  muckle  f aught  an'  din; 

"Oh,  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrief  rogues, 

Your  faither's  comin'  in." 

They  never  heed  a  word  I  speak; 

I  try  to  gie  a  froon, 

But  aye  I  hap  them  up  an'  cry, 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

Wee  Jamie  wi'  the  curly  heid — 

He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa' — 

Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "I  want  a  piece;" 

The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 

I  rin  an'  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, 

They  stop  awee  the  soun', 

Then  draw  the  blankets  up  an'  cry, 

"Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon." 


428  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 
Cries  out,  frae  neath  the  claes, 
"Mither,  mak'  Tarn  gie  ower  at  once, 
He's  kittlin'  wi'  his  taes." 
The  mischief's  in  that  Tarn  for  tricks, 
He'd  bother  half  the  toon, 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up  and  cry, 
"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

At  length  they  hear  their  faither's  fit, 

An'  as  he  steeks  the  door, 

They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa', 

While  Tarn  pretends  to  snore. 

"Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude?"  he  asks, 

As  he  pits  off  his  shoon ; 

"The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 

An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 

And  just  afore  we  bed  oorsels, 

We  look  at  our  wee  lambs ; 

Tarn  has  his  airm  roun'  wee  Rab's  neck, 

And  Rab  his  airm  round  Tarn's. 

I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed, 

An'  as  I  straik  each  croon, 

I  whisper,  till  my  heart  fills  up, 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  mirth  that's  dear  to  me; 

But  soon  the  big  warl's  cark  an'  care 

Will  quaten  doon  their  glee. 

Yet,  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  who  rules  aboon 

Aye  whisper,  though  their  pows  be  beld 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 


PATHETIC  429 

THE  PATRIOT 

By  Robert  Browning 

(An  Old  Story) 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad : 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 
The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 

Had  I  said,  "Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels — 
But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies  1" 

They  had  answered  'And  afterward,  what  else?" 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 

To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keepl 
Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone: 

And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 
This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now 

Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 
For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 

At  the  Shambles'  Gate — or,  better  yet, 
By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind; 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind,. 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go ! 

In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?"     God  might  question;  now  instead, 
'Tis  God  shall  repay:  I  am  safer  so. 


430  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ANNABEL  LEE 

By  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 


PATHETIC  431 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

THE  LOVER  OF  ANNABEL  LEE 
By  Edwin  D.  Casterline 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  soul, 

The  soul  of  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  man  who  loved,  in  the  years  gone  by, 

The  soul  of  Annabel  Lee — 
His  beautiful  bride,  who  sleeps  by  his  side, 

By  the  shores  of  the  sounding  sea. 

They  say  he  was  mad,  but  the  world  was  mad, 

More  mad  and  more  wrong  than  he. 
For  the  soul  was  true  that  loved  the  soul 

Of  the  wondrous  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  touch  of  that  love  was  the  love  that  made  ' 

The  soul  of  her  lover  free. 

In  the  days  gone  by,  in  the  wreck  of  things, 

From  the  wave  of  Life's  wide  sea, 
They  were  carried  beyond  by  their  kinsmen  high, 

He  and  his  Annabel  Lee; 
Her  heart  was  pure,  too  pure  for  the  world 

That  chills  the  heart  of  the  free — 
And  his  was  a  life  that  chilled  with  the  life 

That  passed  from  Annabel  Lee. 

But  the  angels  are  good ;  in  heaven  above 

They  gather  the  wrecks  of  the  sea, 
They  gather  the  gold  from  the  wrecks  of  love, 

And  the  soul  in  its  purity  free — 
So  this  is  what  they've  done  with  the  love 

Of  Poe  and  his  Annabel  Lee. 


432  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I've  stood  in  the  room  where  they  lived  and  loved, 

And  my  soul  touched  the  Life  to  be, 
And  I  felt  the  spell  of  the  hidden  light 

That  lived  in  Annabel  Lee; 
And  I  felt  the  hand  of  the  man  she  loved, 

(That  she  loved  far  better  than  we,) 
And  down  in  my  soul  the  double  soul 

Awoke  the  God  in  me. 

So  down  in  my  dreams  I  follow  the  beams 

Of  Poe  and  his  Annabel  Lee, 
And  deep  in  the  night  I  see  the  pure  light 

That  flashes  and  quivers  to  me. 
Away  in  the  years  where  the  Future  stands, 

In  the  world  that  is  to  be, 
I  know  that  my  hands  will  clasp  the  hands 

Of  Poe  and  his  Annabel  Lee. 

THE  BURIED  HEART 
By  Dennar  Stewart 
"I  sleep,  but  my  heart  waketh." 

Tread  lightly,  love,  when  over  my  head, 

Beneath  the  daisies  lying, 
And  tenderly  press  the  grassy  bed 

Where  the  fallen  rose  lies  dying. 

Dreamless  I  sleep  in  the  quiet  ground, 
Save  when,  your  foot- fall  hearing, 

My  heart  awakes  to  the  old-loved  sound 
And  beats  to  the  step  that's  nearing. 

Bright  shone  the  moon,  last  eve,  when  you  came — 
Still,  dust  for  dust  hath  feeling — 

The  willow-roots  whispered  low  the  name 
Of  him  who  weeps  while  kneeling. 

The  lily-cup  holds  the  falling  tears, 

The  tears  you  shed  above  me; 
And  I  know  through  all  these  silent  years 

There's  some  one  still  to  love  me. 


PATHETIC  433 

Oh,  softly  sigh ;  for  I  hear  the  sound 

And  grieve  me  o'er  your  sorrow; 
But  leave  a  kiss  in  the  myrtle  mound — 

I'll  give  it  back  to-morrow. 

Whisper  me,  love,  as  in  moments  fled, 

While  I  dream  your  hand  mine  taketh ; 
For  the  stone  speaks  false  that  says,  "She's  dead;" 

I  sleep,  but  my  heart  awaketh. 

BREAK!     BREAK!     BREAK! 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 
O,  well  for  the  sailor-lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But,  O,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

BESIDE  THE  DEAD 

By  Ina  Coolbrith 

(One  of  the  finest  sonnets  in  the  English  language) 

It  must  be  sweet,  O  thou,  my  dead,  to  lie 
With  hands  that  folded  are  from  every  task; 

Sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  great  mystery, 
The  lips  that  nothing  answer,  nothing  ask. 


434  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  life-long  struggle  ended;  ended  quite 

The  weariness  of  patience,  and  of  pain, 

And  the  eyes  closed  to  open  not  again 
On  desolate  dawn  or  dreariness  of  night. 
It  must  be  sweet  to  slumber  and  forget; 

To  have  the  poor  tired  heart  so  still  at  last : 
Done  with  all  yearning,  done  with  all  regret, 

Doubt,  fear,  hope,  sorrow,  all  forever  past: 
Past  all  the  hours,  or  slow  of  wing  or  fleet — 
It  must  be  sweet,  it  must  be  very  sweet  1 
— From  "Songs  of  the  Golden  Gate,"  copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.,  and  used  by  kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

ROCKING  THE  BABY 
By  Madge  Morris  Wagner 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby — 

Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine — 
And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 

That  round  her  neck  entwine, 
As  she  rocks,  and  rocks  the  baby, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 
I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 

Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 
And  I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and  love 

In  the  "baby  bye"  she  hums. 
I  see  the  restless  fingers 

Playing  with  "mamma's  rings," 
And  the  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth, 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings, 
As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 
And  I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes,  and  cheek,  and  brow. 
From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start, 
Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  is  rocking  on  a  heart, 


PATHETIC  435 

While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press, 
And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness? 
I  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence, 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 
For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

PUT  FLOWERS  ON  MY  GRAVE 
By  Madge  Morris  Wagner 

When  dead,  no  imposing  funeral  rite, 

Nor  line  of  praise  I  crave; 
But  drop  your  tears  upon  my  face — 

Put  flowers  on  my  grave. 

Close  not  in  narrow  wall  the  place 

In  which  my  heart  finds  rest, 
Nor  mark  with  tow'ring  monument 

The  sod  above  my  breast. 

Nor  carve  on  gleaming,  marble  slab 

A  burning  thought  or  deed. 
Or  word  of  love,  or  praise,  or  blame, 

For  stranger  eyes  to  read. 

But  deep,  deep  in  your  heart  of  hearts, 

A  tender  mem'ry  save; 
Upon  my  dead  face  drop  your  tears — 

Put  flowers  on  my  grave. 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


436  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 
By  Charles  Lamb 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school  days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  thou  not  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  FEEL  I'M  GROWING  AULD,  GUDE-WIFE 
By  James  Linen 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld; 
My  steps  are  frail,  my  een  are  bleared, 

My  pow  is  unco  bauld. 
I've  seen  the  snaws  o'  fourscore  years 

O'er  hill  and  meadow  fa', 
And  hinnie !  were  it  no'  for  you, 

I'd  gladly  slip  awa\ 


PATHETIC  437 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
Frae  youth  to  age  I've  keepit  warm 

The  love  that  ne'er  turned  cauld. 
I  canna  bear  the  dreary  thocht 

That  we  maun  sindered  be ; 
There's  naething  binds  my  poor  auld  heart 

To  earth,  gude-wife,  but  thee. 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld; 
Life  seems  to  me  a  wintry  waste, 

The  very  sun  feels  cauld. 
Of  worldly  frien's  ye've  been  to  me, 

Amang  them  a'  the  best; 
Now,  I'll  lay  down  my  weary  head, 

Gude-wife,  and  be  at  rest. 

DA  THIEF  * 

By  T.  A.  Daly 

Eef  poor  man  goes 
An'  steals  a  rose 

Een  Juna-time — 
Wan  leetla  rose — 
You  gon'  su'pose 

Dat  dat's  a  crime? 

Eh  I  w'at?    Den  taka  look  at  me, 
For  here  bayfore  your  eyes  you  see 
Wan  thief,  dat  ees  so  glad  an'  proud 
He  gona  brag  of  eet  out  loud  I 
So  moocha  good  I  do,  an'  feel, 
From  dat  wan  leetle  rose  I  steal, 
Dat  eef  I  gon'  to  jail  to-day 
Dey  no  could  tak'  my  joy  away. 
So,  leesen!  here  ees  how  eet  come: 
Las'  night  w'en  I  am  walkin'  home 
From  work  een  hotta  ceety  street 
1  From  "Madrigali." 


438  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Ees  sudden  com'  a  smal  so  sweet 
Eet  maka  heaven  een  my  nose — 
I  look  an'  dere  I  see  da  rose! 
Not  wan,  but  manny,  fine  an'  tall, 
Dat  peep  at  me  above  da  wall. 
So,  then,  I  close  my  eyes  an'  find 
Anudder  peecture  een  my  mind; 
I  see  a  house  dat's  small  an'  hot 
Where  many  pretta  theengs  ees  not, 
Where  leetla  woman,  good  an'  true, 
Ees  work  so  hard  da  whole  day  through, 
She's  too  wore  out,  w'en  corn's  da  night, 
For  smile  an'  mak'  da  housa  bright. 

But  presto !  now  I'm  home,  an'  she 
Ees  seetin'  on  da  step  weeth  me. 
Bambino,  sleepin'  on  her  breast, 
Ees  nevva  know  more  sweeta  rest, 
An'  nevva  was  sooch  glad  su'prise 
Like  now  ees  shina  from  her  eyes ; 
An'  all  baycause  to-night  she  wear 
Wan  leetla  rose  stuck  een  her  hair. 
She  ees  so  please'  1    Eet  mak'  me  feel 
I  shoulda  sooner  learned  to  steal  1 

Eef  "thief's"  my  name 
I  feel  no  shame ; 

Eet  ees  no  crime — i 
Dat  rose  I  got. 
Ehlw'at?    Olnot 

Een  Juna-timel 

—Copyright  1912,  by  David  McKay,  and  used  by  kind  permission  of 
author  and  publisher. 


THE  SAND  STORM 
By  Lowell  Otus  Reese 

We  are  thirsty,  Pedro  mio !  and  the  heat  waves  leap  and  beat 
Where  the  Spanish  daggers  quiver  in  the  mighty  desert  heat, 


PATHETIC  439 

And  the  aching  eye  looks  longing  from  Old  Baldy  to  the  east, 
Where  the  Panamint  is  crouching  like  some  ugly,  hidden  beast; 
Tis  a  hell-wind,  Pedro  mio !  and  it  beats  the  sandy  hail ; 
And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail. 

Oh,  the  loneliness  of  nature  when  she  turns  on  you  her  frown ! 
When  you  feel  no  eye  upon  you,  save  the  fierce  sun  glaring  down, 
Searing  death  into  your  body  and  despair  into  your  soul, 
As  you  reel  across  the  desert  with  the  sky-line,  for  your  goal ; 
When  the  breath  begins  to  falter  and  the  step  begins  to  fail, 
And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail ! 

Oh,  the  awfulness  of  Nature  when  she  turns  on  you  her  frown! 

When  an  unseen  hand  above  you  is  forever  pressing  down ! 

When  across  the  hungry  desert  flames  the  scorching  sword  of  Death, 

And  the  eyes  and  lips  are  blackened  in  the  Spirit's  blighting  breath! 

Oh,  the  agony  of  dying,  when  the  step  begins  to  fail, 

And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail! 

Oh,  the  dry  and  flying  sand  that  stings  to  fever  cheek  and  brow! 
Rain  of  Hell,  O,  Pedro  mio !  and  the  flame  is  on  us  now ! 
Spiral  Phantoms  on  the  desert  writhe  and  wriggle  slowly  by, 
Reaching  earthward  from  the  bosom  from  the  black  and  yellow  sky ; 
Oh,  the  spiral  specters  writhing  where  the  yuccas  beat  and  flail, 
And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail ! 

I  have  seen  it,  Pedro  mio ! — seen  it  dimly  through  the  wrack ! — 
Over  there  beyond  the  basin  where  the  cloud  is  whirling  black! 
Streams  of  water,  peaceful  meadows  and  the  shade  of  bending  trees, 
Stirring  gently — ah,  so  gently !  in  the  coolest  summer  breeze. 
Let  us  turn  aside  and  rest  there  from  the  fury  of  the  gale ; 
For  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail ! 

Faster — faster,  Pedro  mio  ! — for  the  blood  is  in  my  eyes ! 
I  would  reach  the  blessed  water  ere  it  o'er  my  vision  dries ! 
For  it  thunders  in  my  temples  the  tumultuous  refrain 
Of  a  mountain  torrent  singing  to  the  first  November  rain ! 
Stumble — stumble — onward — farther  from  the  desiccating  hail 
Where  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail! 

We  have  fallen,  Pedro  mio !  and  the  vision  fair  is  gone ; 
But  above  us  and  around  us  yet  the  tempest  hurtles  on; 


440  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Hark !  a  swirling  raven  settles  with  a  flap  of  twisted  wings ; 
And  I  seem  to  feel  about  us  many  crawling,  creeping  things ! 
We  have  fallen,  Pedro  mio!     Hark  the  raging  of  the  gale! 
And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail ! 

I  am  dying,  Pedro  mio !  and  I  fain  would  go  to  sleep. 

Faugh!  the  raven  'lights  upon  me!  and  the  frightened  lizards  creep 

With  a  rush  of  tiny  claws  across  my  swollen  lips !  and  swift 

O'er  my  breast,  a  burning  blanket,  rushing  sand-waves  eager  drift; 

We  are  dying,  Pedro  mio !  in  the  awful  desert  gale ! 

And  the  Yellow  Snake  is  hissing  by  the  old  Mohave  trail ! 

NATHAN  HALE 
By  Francis  M.  Finch 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by: 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye,  s. 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat  i 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 

He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 
He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 

And  the  arm'd  sentry's  tramp ; 
And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 

His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

He  scans  the  tented  line; 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 

It  meets  his  eager  glance ; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 

Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance; — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 

On  an  emerald  expanse. 


PATHETIC  441 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found ; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom ; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  ^hadow-trace  of  gloom ; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  God ! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit-wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message-words, 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 

A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 

A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn; 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  Hale  shall  burn! 


442  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

MOTHER  AND  POET 
By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
(Turin,  after  news  from  Gaeta,  1861) 

Dead!    One  of  them  shot  in  the  sea  by  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea ! 

Dead !  both  my  boys !  when  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 
And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, — 
The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
Forever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?    O,  vain ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain? 

Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong  as  you  pressed, 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art's  for  a  woman?  to  hold  on  her  knees 

Both  darlings !  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little!  to  sew  by  degrees 
And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat  little  coat! 
To  dream  and  to  doat! 

To  teach  them  ...  It  stings  there!     I  made  them,  indeed, 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught  them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed  ...  O  my  beautiful  eyes !  .  .  . 

I  exulted !  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not— But  then  the  surprise 

When  one  sits  quite  alone ! — Then  one  weeps,  then  one  kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels ! 


PATHETIC  443 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me,  and,  soon  coming  home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin :     "Ancona  was  free  1" 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me, — 
My  Guido  was  dead !     I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it;  friends  soothed  me;  my  grief  looked  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand :     "I  was  not  to  faint, — 

One  loved  me  for  two — would  be  with  me  ere  long: 
And  'Viva  Y  Italia  1'  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint !" 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "He  was  safe,  and  aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls, — was  impressed 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta! — Shot. 

Tell  His  Mother.    Ah,  ah,  "his,"  "their"  mother,— not  "mine," 
No  voice  says  "my  mother"  again  to  me.    What  1 
You  think  Guido  forgot? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  love  and  sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  above  and  below. 


444  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

O  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !  consider,  I  pray, 

How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say! 

Both  boys  dead?  but  that's  out  of  nature.    We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one. 

'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done, 
If  we  have  not  a  son? 

Ah,  ah,  ahl  when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of  men? 

When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final' retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short; 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head 
(And  /  have  my  dead), — 

What  then?    Do  not  mock  me.    Ah,  ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly  1    My  country  is  there, 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow: 
My  Italy's  THERE, — with  my  brave  civic  pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair  1 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn; 

But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this, — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea  1 
Both !  both  my  boys  1     If  in  keeping  the  feast, 

You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me! 


PATHETIC  445 

DORA 

With  farmer  Allan,  at  the  farm,  abode  William  and  Dora.  William 
was  his  son,  and  she  his  niece.  He  often  looked  at  them  and  thought, 
"I'll  make  them  man  and  wife."  Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in 
all,  and  yearned  towards  William;  but  the  youth,  because  he  had  al- 
ways been  with  her  in  the  house,  thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  "My 
son,  I  married  late,  but  I  wish  to  see  my  grandchild  on  my  knees 
before  I  die:  and  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match.  Now  therefore 
look  to  Dora;  she  is  well  to  look  at,  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age.  She 
is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I  had  once  hard  words,  and  parted, 
and  he  died  in  foreign  lands ;  but  for  his  sake  I  cared  for  his  daughter 
Dora:  take  her  for  your  wife;  for  I  have  wished  this  marriage,  night 
and  day,  for  many  years." 

But  William  answered  short:  "I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life,  I 
will  not  marry  Dora." 

Then  the  old  man  was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  arid  said: 
"You  will  not,  boy!  You  dare  to  answer  thus?  But  in  my  time  a 
father's  word  was  law,  and  so  it  shall  be  now  for  you.  Look  to  it; 
consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think,  and  let  me  have  an  answer 
to  my  wish,  or  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack,  and  never 
more  darken  my  doors  again." 

But  William  answered  madly;  bit  his  lips,  and  broke  away.  The 
more  he  looked  at  her  the  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
but  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then,  before  the  month  was  out  he  left 
his  father's  house,  and  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields ;  and, 
half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and  wed  a  laborer's  daughter,  Mary 
Morrison. 

When  the  wedding  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  called  his  niece  and 
said:  "My  girl,  I  love  you  well;  but  if  you  speak  with  him  who  was 
my  son,  or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife,  my  home  is  none 
of  yours.  My  will  is  law."  And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
thought,  "It  cannot  be :  my  uncle's  mind  will  change !"  And  days  went 
on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy  to  William ;  then  distresses  came  on  him, 
and  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's  gate,  heart-broken,  and  his  father 
helped  him  not.  But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save,  and  sent 
it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know  who  sent  it;  till  at  last  a  fever 
seized  on  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died.  Then  Dora  went  to 
Mary.  Mary  sat  and  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and  said:     "I  have  obeyed  my  uncle 


446  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

until  now,  and  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me  this  evil  came 
on  William  at  the  first.  But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 
and  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose,  and  for  this  orphan,  I 
am  come  to  you,  You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years  so 
full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy,  and  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's 
eye  among  the  wheat;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad  of  the  full  harvest, 
he  may  see  the  boy,  and  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child  and  went  her  way  across  the  wheat,  and  sat 
upon  a  mound  that  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew.  Far  off 
the  farmer  came  into  the  field  and  spied  her  not;  for  none  of  all  his 
men  dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child.  And  Dora  would  have 
risen  and  gone  to  him,  but  her  heart  failed  her ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
and  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took  the  child  once  more, 
and  sat  upon  the  mound;  and  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
that  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat  to  make  him  pleasing  in  her 
uncle's  eye.  Then  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field  he  spied  her, 
and  he  left  his  men  at  work,  and  came  and  said:  "Where  were  you 
yesterday?     Whose  child  is  that?     What  are  you  doing  here?" 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  answered  softly,  "This 
is  William's  child!" 

"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "did  I  not  forbid  you,  Dora?" 

Dora  said  again :  "Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child,  and 
bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone !" 

And  Allan  said,  "I  see  it  is  a  trick  got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman 
there.  I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you !  You  knew  my  word 
was  law,  and  yet  you  dared  to  slight  it.  Well! — for  I  will  take  the 
boy;  but  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying  he  took  the  boy  that  cried  aloud  and  struggled  hard.  The 
wreath  of  flowers  fell  at  Dora's  feet.  She  bowed  over  her  hands,  and 
the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field,  more  and  more  distant.  She 
bowed  down  her  head,  remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came,  and 
all  the  things  that  had  been.  She  bowed  down  and  wept  in  secret ; 
and  the  reapers  reaped,  and  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold.  Mary 
saw  the  boy  was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out  in  praise  to  God,  that 
helped  her  in  her  widowhood.  And  Dora  said,  "My  uncle  took  the 
boy ;  but,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you ;  he  says  that  he  will 
never  see  me  more." 

Then  answered  Mary,  "This  shall  never  be,  that  thou  shouldst  take 
my  trouble  on  thyself :  and,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 


PATHETIC  447 

for  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight  his  mother ;  therefore 
thou  and  I  will  go,  and  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home ;  and 
I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back :  but  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back 
again,  then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house,  and  work  for  Wil- 
'liam's  child,  until  he  grows  of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kissed  each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch :  they  peeped  and  saw  the  boy  set  up  be- 
twixt his  grandsire's  knees,  who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arms, 
and  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks,  like  one  that  loved  him : 
and  the  lad  stretched  out  and  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 
from  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire.  Then  they  came  in:  but 
when  the  boy  beheld  his  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her:  and 
Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said:  "O  Father! — if  you  let  me  call 
you  so — I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself,  or  William,  or  this  child; 
but  now  I  come  for  Dora:  take  her  back,  she  loves  you  well.  O  Sir, 
when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace  with  all  men;  for  I  asked  him, 
and  he  said  he  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — I  had  been  a 
patient  wife:  but,  Sir,  he  said  that  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 
thus :  'God  bless  him !'  he  said,  'and  may  he  never  know  the  troubles  I 
have  gone  through !'  Then  he  turned  his  face  and  passed — unhappy 
that  I  am !  But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you  will  make  him 
hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight  his  father's  memory;  and  take  Dora 
back,  and  let  all  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face  by  Mary.  There  was  silence 
in  the  room ;  and  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs :  "I  have  been 
to  blame — to  blame.  I  have  killed  my  son.  I  have  killed  him — but  I 
loved  him — my  dear  son.  May  God  forgive  me  1  I  have  been  to 
blame.     Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about  the  old  man's  neck,  and  they  kissed  him  many 
times.  And  Allan  was  broken  with  remorse;  and  all  his  love  came 
back  a  hundred-fold;  and  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o'er  William's 
child  thinking  of  William.  So  those  four  abode  in  one  house  together; 
and  as  years  went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate;  but  Dora  lived 
unmarried  until  her  death. 

THE  FAMINE1 

By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

O  the  long  and  dreary  Winter! 
O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter ! 
1  From  Hiawatha. 


448  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker, 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

O  the  famine  and  the  fever  1 
O  the  wasting  of  the  famine ! 
O  the  blasting  of  the  fever  1 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children ! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  women ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy; 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water ; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said:     "Behold  me! 

1  am  Famine,  Bukadawin !" 

And  the  other  said :     "Behold  me  I 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin !" 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 


PATHETIC  449 

Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty !" 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"Give  your  children  food,  O  Father! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha!" 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 

But  there  came  no  other  answer 

Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 

Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 

"Minnehaha !  Minnehaha  1" 
All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 

In  that  melancholy  forest, 

Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 

In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 

Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 

He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ; 

When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 

And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 


450  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched  her, 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She,  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

"Hark!"  she  said;  "I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance  1" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees  1" 

"Look!"  she  said;  "I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs !" 
"No,  my  child !"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons  I" 

"Ah!"  said  she,  "the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness ! 
Hiawatha !    Hiawatha !" 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"Hiawatha !     Hiawatha !" 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted, 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
"Wahonowin !     Wahonowin ! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are ! 


PATHETIC  451 

Wahonowin !     Wahonowin !" 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly- 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 


452  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 
"Farewell,"  said  he,  "Minnehaha! 
-  Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  1" 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  BATTLE-FIELD 
By  James  Gowdy  Clark 

Upon  the  field  of  Gettysburg 

The  summer  sun  was  high, 
When  Freedom  met  her  haughty  foe 

Beneath  a  northern  sky. 
Among  the  heroes  of  the  North 

That  swelled  her  grand  array, 
And  rushed  like  mountain  eagles  forth 

From  happy  homes  away, 
There  stood  a  man  of  humble  fame, — 

A  sire  of  children  three, — 
And  gazed  within  a  little  frame 

His  pictured  ones  to  see : 
And  blame  him  not  if,  in  the  strife, 

He  breathed  a  soldier's  prayer, — 
"O  Father !  shield  the  soldier's  wife, 

And  for  his  children  care." 

Upon  the  field  of  Gettysburg, 

When  morning  shone  again, 
The  crimson  cloud  of  battle  burst 

In  streams  of  fiery  rain : 


PATHETIC  453 

Our  legions  quelled  the  awful  flood 

Of  shot  and  steel  and  shell, 
While  banners,  marked  with  ball  and  blood, 

Around  them  rose  and  fell : 
And  none  more  nobly  won  the  name 

Of  Champion  of  the  Free 
Than  he  who  pressed  the  little  frame 

That  held  his  children  three ; 
And  none  were  braver  in  the  strife 

Than  he  who  breathed  the  prayer, — 
"O  Father !  shield  the  soldier's  wife, 

And  for  his  children  care." 

Upon  the  field  of  Gettysburg 

The  full  moon  slowly  rose, — 
She  looked,  and  saw  ten  thousand  brows 
•  All  pale  in  death's  repose ; 
And  down  beside  a  silver  stream, 

From  other  forms  away, 
Calm  as  a  warrior  in  a  dream, 

Our  fallen  comrade  lay; 
His  limbs  were  cold,  his  sightless  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  the  three 
Sweet  stars  that  rose  in  memory's  skies 

To  light  him  o'er  death's  sea. 
Then  honored  be  the  soldier's  life, 

And  hallowed  be  his  prayer, — 
"O  Father!  shield  the  soldier's  wife, 

And  for  his  children  care." 


PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  FUNERAL 
By  Sarah  E.  Carmichael 

Toll!    Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
All  rivers  seaward  wend. 

Toll!     Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
Weep  for  the  nation's  friend. 


454  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Every  home  and  hall  was  shrouded, 

Every  thoroughfare  was  still; 
Every  brow  was  darkly  clouded, 

Every  heart  was  faint  and  chill. 
Oh !  the  inky  drop  of  poison 

In  our  bitter  draught  of  grief ! 
Oh !  the  sorrow  of  a  nation 

Mourning  for  its  murdered  chief ! 

Toll!     Toll! 

Toll !  Toll ! 
Bound  in  the  reaper's  sheaf — 

Toll!    Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
All  mortal  life  is  brief. 

Toll!    Toll! 

Toll!  Toll! 
Weep  for  the  nation's  chief! 

Bands  of  mourning  draped  the  homestead, 

And  the  sacred  house  of  prayer; 
Mourning  folds  lay  black  and  heavy 

On  true  bosoms  everywhere: 
Yet  there  were  no  tear-drops  streaming 

From  the  deep  and  solemn  eye 
Of  the  hour  that  mutely  waited 

Till  the  funeral  train  went  by. 
Oh!  there  is  a  woe  that  crushes 

All  expression  with  its  weight! 
There  is  pain  that  numbs  and  hushes 

Feeling's  sense,  it  is  so  great. 

Strongest  arms  were  closely  folded, 

Most  impassioned  lips  at  rest; 
Scarcely  seemed  a  heaving  motion 

In  the  nation's  wounded  breast; 
Tears  were  frozen  in  their  sources, 

Blushes  burned  themselves  away; 
Language  bled  through  broken  heart-threads, 

Lips  had  nothing  left  to  say. 


PATHETIC  455 


Yet  there  was  a  marble  sorrow- 
In  each  still  face,  chiseled  deep; 

Something  more  than  words  could  utter, 
Something  more  than  tears  could  weep. 

Selfishly  the  nation  mourned  him, 

Mourned  its  chieftain  and  its  friend; 
Eye  no  traitor  mist  could  darken, 

Arm  no  traitor  power  could  bend; 
Heart  that  gathered  the  true  pulses 

Of  the  land's  indignant  veins, 
And,  with  their  tempestuous  spurning, 

Broke  the  slave's  tear-rusted  chains : 
Heart  that  tied  its  iron  fibers 

Round  the  Union's  starry  band; 
Martyr's  heart,  that  upward  beating, 

Broke  on  hate's  assassin  hand ! 
Oh !  the  land  he  loved  will  miss  him, 

Miss  him  in  its  hour  of  need! 
Mourns  the  nation  for  the  nation 

Till  its  tear-drops  inward  bleed. 

There  is  one  whose  life  will  mourn  him, 

With  a  deep,  unselfish  woe; 
One  who  owned  him  chief  and  master 

Ere  the  nation  named  him  so. 
That  the  land  he  loved  will  miss  him 

Does  she  either  think  or  care? 
No  1  the  chieftain's  heart  is  shrouded, 

And  her  woman's  world  was  there. 
No !  the  nation  was  her  rival ; 

Let  its  glory  shine  or  dim, 
He  hath  perished  on  its  altar — 

What  were  many  such  to  him  ? 

Toll!    Toll! 
Toll!    Toll! 
Never  again — no  more — 
Comes  back  to  earth  the  life  that  goes 
Hence  to  the  Eden  shore! 


456  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Let  him  rest! — it  is  not  often 
That  his  soul  hath  known  repose ; 

Let  him  rest ! — they  rest  but  seldom 
Whose  successes  challenge  foes. 

He  was  weary — worn  with  watching ; 
His  life-crown  of  power  hath  pressed 

Oft  on  temples  sadly  aching- 
He  was  weary,  let  him  rest. 

Toll,  bells  at  the  Capital ! 

Bells  of  the  land,  toll  1 
Sob  out  your  grief  with  brazen  lungs — 

Toll!    Toll!    Toll! 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  STORY 
By  Herbert  Bashford 

I  knew  he  was  morose  that  day 
Because  he  did  not  speak  to  me, 

But  now  I  know  he  was  away 
Upon  the  hills  of  Italy. 

He  showed  me  once  long  months  before 
The  picture  of  a  dark-eyed  girl 

Within  a  locket  that  he  wore — 
A  little  keepsake  wrought  of  pearl. 

His  life  had  known  no  counter  gale, 
He  had  the  aid  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  dreamed  that  soon  a  snowy  sail 
Should  bear  him  to  his  future  bride. 

'Twas  but  a  letter — nothing  much — 

A  scrap  of  paper  sent  to  him, 
Yet  something  he  did  clutch  and  clutch 

The  while  his  dusky  eyes  grew  dim. 

And  oh,  how  eagerly  he  scanned 
Each  syllable  that  formed  her  name ! 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand 
And  fed  it  to  the  driftwood  flame. 


PATHETIC  457 

As  in  a  dream  he  sat  and  stared 

At  night's  biuck  pall  around  us  hung; 
I  would  have  spoken  if  I'd  dared, 

But  silence  had  a  gentler  tongue. 

He  did  not  curse  as  men  will  do, 

Of  grief  he  gave  no  outward  sign; 
That  bitter  draught  of  myrrh  and  rue 

He  drank  as  though  it  had  been  wine. 

With  joyless  heart  he  crooned  a  song 

Of  love  and  hope,  as  day  by  day 
We  hauled  our  heavy  seine  along 

The  pebbled  beaches  of  the  bay. 

At  last— ah,  Christ,  I'll  not  forget ! 

I  never  saw  the  like  before ! 
An  empty  boat — we,  chilled  and  wet, 

And  ten  leagues  from  our  cabin  door  1 

Ten  leagues — a  stormy  row! 

But  fishermen  know  naught  of  fear ; 
Had  we  ere  this  not  faced  the  snow 

When  winter  nights  were  dark  and  drear? 

Had  we  not  braved  the  Storm-king's  glee 

When  winds  were  shrill  and  waves  were  high, 

Been  battered  by  a  raging  sea 
And  swung  below  a  ragged  sky? 

"Oho !    Cheer  up  1"  I  cried, 

"We've  dared  the  seas  before,  my  mate, 
What  matter  if  ill  luck  betide?— 

Why,  we  were  born  to  laugh  at  fate !" 

He  grasped  his  oar  with  one  long  sigh, 

Nor  spoke  he  any  word  to  me ; 
And  so  together,  he  and  I, 

Put  out  upon  the  angry  sea. 


458  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  side  by  side,  with  steady  stroke, 
We  fought  against  the  veering  flaw; 

In  flakes  of  froth  the  billows  broke — 
The  wildest  wolves  I  ever  saw ! 

Ah,  how  the  cutting  north  wind  blew, 
And  in  our  faces  dashed  the  spray! 

The  sullen  twilight  round  us  grew, 
The  green  shore  faded  into  gray. 

"Cheer  up !     Cheer  up !    A  merry  row 
We'll  have  ere  dawn  of  day!"  laughed  I; 

"And  what  care  we  how  winds  may  blow?" 
The  Sea's  voice  only  made  reply. 

A  silent  man  he  left  the  shore, 
Nor  yet  a  single  word  had  said ; 

A  silent  man  he  dipped  his  oar 
As  though  it  were  a  thing  of  lead. 

The  night  came  down  and  still  we  toiled, 
The  tumult  fiercer  grew,  and  now 

The  swirling  tide-rip  foamed  and  boiled, 
And  ghostly  seas  swept  o'er  the  prow. 

The  air  was  filled  with  flying  spume, 
Cloud-galleons  sailed  down  the  sky, 

Strange  forms  groped  toward  us  in  the  gloom, 
Pale  phantoms  glided  swiftly  by. 

Afar,  at  times,  a  lonely  loon 

Sent  quavering  laughter  through  the  night, 
While  from  a  filmy  sheath  the  moon 

Drew  forth  a  sabre,  keen  and  bright. 

Oh,  it  was  weird! — the  seabird's  screech, 
The  distant  buoy's  warning  bell, 

The  white  palms  lifting  high  to  reach 
A  loosened  star  that  downward  fell ! 


PATHETIC  459 


Within  my  breast  each  moment  grew 
A  fear  of  more  than  wind-blown  sea; 

And  lo !  that  mute  man,  laughing,  threw 
Aside  his  oar  and  leered  at  me. 

That  moonlit  face!     It  haunts  me  still! 

The  eyes  that  spoke  the  maddened  brain! 
That  moonlit  face !  it  sent  a  thrill 

Of  terror  through  my  every  vein ! 

"Aha !    You  thought  me  dead,  you  cur !" — 
His  breath  blew  hot  against  my  cheek; 

"Aha !    You  coward,  you  lied  to  her !" — 
I  felt  my  limbs  grow  strangely  weak. 

"Lorenzo !    Look !    The  boat !     The  boat !"- 
But  how  can  mad  men  understand? 

My  God!     He  leaped  to  clutch  my  throat, 
A  wicked  dagger  in  his  hand ! 

That  lifted  knife !    Ah,  yet  I  feel 

A  horror  of  the  deadly  thing! 
The  long,  keen  blade  of  polished  steel 

Against  the  white  stars  quivering. 

I  upward  sprang — I  grasped  somehow 
The  hand  that  held  the  hilt  of  bone; 

With  panther  strength  he  struggled  now, 
A  demon  I  must  fight — alone! 

He  strove  to  slay,  and  I  to  save 
His  life  and  mine  if  such  might  be, 

And  in  the  trough  and  on  the  wave 
Like  beasts  we  grappled  savagely. 

To  plead  were  vain ;  I  could  not  hear 
My  voice  above  the  tempest's  breath, 

I  only  knew  my  feet  were  near 
The  awful,  icy  edge  of  Death. 


460  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

We  fought  until  the  dark  became 

A  glare  of  crimson  to  my  eyes, 
Until  the  stars  were  snakes  of  flame 

That  writhed  along  the  lurid  skies. 

We  fought  I  know  not  how — to  me 

All  things  of  that  mad  night  appear 
As  vague  as  when  in  dreams  you  see 

The  ghouls  that  haunt  the  coast  of  Fear. 

We  fought — we  fought  and  then — and  then — 

A  leap — a  cry — and  he  was  gone ! 
And  I  alone  pulled  shoreward  when 

The  East  had  grown  the  flower  of  dawn. 

I  knew  he  was  morose  that  day 

Because  he  did  not  speak  to  me, 
But  now  I  know  he  was  away 

Upon  the  hills  of  Italy. 

— Copyright  by  the  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

WHY  SANTA  CLAUS  FORGOT 
By  Herbert  Bashford 

A  wind  from  the  south  swept  down  the  bay, 
And  pale  with  anger  the  waters  turned 

As  the  ranchman's  wife  looked  far  away 
To  where  the  lights  of  the  city  burned. 

Like  feeble  stars  on  that  Christmas  eve 
Were  the  pulsing  lights  beyond  the  tide; 

"Now  play  with  your  dolly  and  do  not  grieve," 
Said  she  to  the  wee  one  at  her  side. 

"Good  Santa  Claus  will  come  to  you 

This  very  night  if  you  do  not  cry," 
And  she  wiped  a  tear  like  a  drop  of  dew 

From  the  rosy  cheek  and  the  anxious  eye. 


PATHETIC  461 

"No  sail!     No  sail!"  and  the  sad  wife  pressed 

A  wan  face  close  to  the  window-pane, 
But  naught  she  saw  but  the  sea's  white  breast 

And  the  long  gray  lash  of  the  hissing  rain. 

The  night  fell  black  and  the  wild  gale  played 
In  the  chimney's  throat  a  shrill,  weird  tune, 

While  into  a  cloud  as  if  afraid 

Stole  the  ghostly  form  of  the  groping  moon. 

Then  the  steeds  of  the  sea  all  landward  came, 

Each  panting  courser  thundered  o'er 
The  rocks  of  the  reef  and  died  in  flame 

Along  the  utmost  reach  of  shore. 

Ah,  heavy  the  heart  of  the  ranchman's  wifet 

And  long  she  listened,  yet  only  heard 
The  voice  of  breakers  in  awful  strife 

And  the  plaintive  cry  of  a  frightened  bird. 

So  long  she  waited  and  prayed  for  day 

As  the  firelight  flickered  upon  the  floor, 
While  the  prowling  wind  like  a  beast  of  prey 

Did  growl  and  growl  at  the  cabin  door. 

The  gray  dawn  crept  through  the  weeping  wood, 

The  clouds  set  sail  and  all  was  still ; 
With  a  breast  of  gold  the  fair  morn  stood 

Above  the  firs  of  the  eastern  hill. 

The  waters  slept  and  the  raindrops  clung 
Like  shimmering  pearls  to  the  maple  tree; 

The  sky  was  clear  and  the  brown  birds  flung 
Sweet  showers  of  crystal  melody. 

A  splintered  mast  and  a  tattered  sail 
Lay  out  in  the  sun  on  the  hard  brown  sands 

And  plainer  than  words  they  told  a  tale 
To  the  woman  who  wept  and  wrung  her  hands. 


462  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  the  little  girl  with  the  golcUcrowned  head 
Looked  up  with  her  tear-wet  eyes  of  blue; 

"Oh,  please  don't  cry,  mamma,"  she  said, 
"Old  Santa  Claus  forgot  me,  too." 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP 
By  Bret  Harte 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow: 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "Nell"  on  English  meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 


PATHETIC  463 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp  and  wasted  all  its  fire; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell? — 
Ah !  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp,  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak,  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine ! 

— Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  used 
by  their  kind  permission. 

WHEN  THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMED 

By  A.  J.  Waterhouse 

Sometimes  'long  after  supper  my  grandsire  used  to  sit 
Where  the  sunbeams  through  the  window  things  of  beauty  liked  to  knit, 
And  he'd  light  his  pipe  and  sit  there  in  a  sort  of  waking  dream, 
While  to  bathe  his  form  in  glory  seemed  the  sunlight's  pretty  scheme ; 
And  then,  whatever  happened,  he  didn't  seem  to  see, 
And  a  smile  lit  up  his  features  that  used  to  puzzle  me, 
And  I  would  often  wonder  what  pleasant  inner  theme 
Had  caused  that  strange  and  tranquil  smile  when  grandpa  used  to 
dream. 

Sometimes,  though,  when  I'd  listen  I'd  hear  the  good  man  sigh, 
And  once  I'm  almost  sure  I  saw  the  moisture  in  his  eye, 


464  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  whether  he  would  smile  or  sigh,  he  didn't  seem  to  see 

The  things  that  happened  'round  him,  and  that's  what  puzzled  me. 

With  the  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending  as  the  twilight  gathered  there, 

The  shadows  crept  about  him  in  the  old  arm  chair, 

And  through  the  evening  darkness  I  could  see  the  fitful  gleam 

From  the  embers  in  his  lighted  pipe  when  grandpa  used  to  dream. 

I  used  to  wonder  in  those  days.     I  wonder  now  no  more, 

For  now  I  understand  the  thing  that  puzzled  me  of  yore, 

And  I  know  that  through  the  twilight  and  the  shadows  gathering  fast 

Came  unto  my  grandsire,  dreaming,  the  visions  of  the  past. 

The  boys  who  played  with  him  were  there  within  that  little  room; 

His  mother's  smile  no  doubt  lit  up  the  darkness  and  the  gloom ; 

Again  he  ran  and  leaped  and  played  beside  an  Eastern  stream ; 

The  ones  he  loved  were  there,  I  know,  when  grandpa  used  to  dream. 

And  so  he  smiled — and  then  she  stood,  his  dearest,  at  his  side, 
With  the  glow  of  youth  upon  her,  red-lipped  and  laughing  eyed, 
And  he  told  the  old,  sweet  story,  and  she  listened,  nothing  loth, 
And  dreams  of  hope  were  written  in  the  happy  hearts  of  both; 
And  then,  by  strange  transition,  he  saw  her  pulseless  lie — 
And  'twas  then  I  viewed  the  moisture  in  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
Old  friends  were  gathered  round  him,  though  they'd  crossed  death's 

mystic  stream, 
In  that  hour  of  smiles  and  sighing  when  my  grandsire  used  to  dream. 

Oh,  glad,  sad  gift  of  memory  to  call  our  dear  ones  back 

And  win  them  from  their  narrow  homes  to  Time's  still  beaten  track  1 

Yours  was  the  power  my  grandsire  held  while  twilight  turned  to  night ; 

Through  you  his  loved  returned  again  and  blessed  his  longing  sight; 

And  I  no  longer  wonder,  when  his  dreaming  I  recall, 

At  smiles  and  sighs  succeeding  while  the  shadows  hid  us  all, 

For,  while  my  pencil's  trailing  and  I've  half  forgot  my  theme, 

I,  too,  am  seeing  visions,  as  my  grandsire  used  to  dream. 


PATHETIC  465 

WHEN  LITTLE  SISTER  CAME1 

By  Joaquin  Miller 

We  dwelt  in  the  woods  of  the  Tippe-canoe, 

In  a  lone  lost  cabin,  with  never  a  view 

Of  the  full  day's  sun  for  a  whole  year  through. 

With  strange  half  hints  through  the  russet  corn 

We  children  were  hurried  one  night.     Next  morn 

There  was  frost  on  the  trees,  and  a  sprinkle  of  snow, 

And  tracks  on  the  ground.     Three  boys  below 

The  low  eave  listened.    We  burst  through  the  door, 

And  a  girl  baby  cried, — and  then  we  were  four. 

We  were  not  sturdy,  and  we  were  not  wise 
In  the  things  of  the  world,  and  the  ways  men  dare. 
A  pale-browed  mother  with  a  prophet's  eyes, 
A  father  that  dreamed  and  looked  anywhere. 

1  Mr.  Miller  gives  the  following  interesting  note  to  the  above  poem: 
"We  had  been  moving  West  and  West  from  my  birth,  at  Liberty,  Union 
County,  Indiana,  November  10,  1841  or  1842  (the  Bible  was  burned  and  we  don't 
know  which  year),  and  now  were  in  the  woods  of  the  Miami  Indian  Reserve.  My 
first  recollection  is  of  starting  up  from  the  trundle-bed  with  my  two  little  brothers 
and  looking  out  one  night  at  father  and  mother  at  work  burning  brush-heaps, 
which  threw  a  lurid  flare  against  the  greased  paper  window.  Late  that  autumn  I 
was  measured  for  my  first  shoes,  and  Papa  led  me  to  his  school.  Then  a  strange 
old  woman  came,  and  there  was  mystery  and  a  smell  of  mint,  and  one  night,  as 
we  three  little  ones  were  hurried  away  through  the  woods  to  a  neighbor's,  she  was 
very  cross.  We  three  came  back  alone  in  the  cold,  early  morning.  There  was  a 
little  snow,  rabbit  tracks  in  the  trail,  and  some  quail  ran  hastily  from  cover  to 
cover.  We  three  little  ones  were  all  alone  and  silent,  so  silent.  We  knew  noth- 
ing, nothing  at  all,  and  yet  we  knew,  intuitively,  all ;  but  truly  the  divine  mys- 
tery of  mother  nature,  God's  relegation  of  His  last  great  work  to  woman,  her 
partnership  with  Him  in  creation — not  one  of  us  had  ever  dreamed  of.  Yet  we 
three  little  lads  huddled  up  in  a  knot  near  the  ice-hung  eaves  of  the  log  cabin  out- 
side the  corner  where  mother's  bed  stood  and — did  the  new  baby  hear  her  silent 
and  awed  little  brothers?  Did  she  feel  them,  outside  there,  huddled  close  together 
in  the  cold  and  snow,  listening,  listening?  For  lo!  a  little  baby  cry  came  through 
the  cabin  wall ;  and  then  we  all  rushed  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  jerked  the 
latch  and  all  three  in  a  heap  tumbled  up  into  the  bed  and  peered  down  into  the 
little  pink  face  against  mother's  breast.  Gentle,  gentle,  how  more  than  ever  gentle 
were  we  all  six  now  in  that  little  log  cabin.  Papa  doing  everything  so  gently, 
saying  nothing,  only  doing,  doing.  And  ever  so  and  always  toward  the  West,  till 
1852,  when  he  had  touched  the  sea  of  seas,  and  could  go  no  farther.  And  so  gen- 
tle always!  Can  you  conceive  how  gentle?  Seventy  two  years  he  led  and  lived 
in  the  wilderness  and  yet  never  fired  or  even  laid  hand  to  a  gun." 


466  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Three  brothers — wild  blossoms,  tall-fashioned  as  men 
And  we  mingled  with  none,  but  we  lived  as  when 
The  pair  first  lived  ere  they  knew  the  fall ; 
And,  loving  all  things,  we  believed  in  all. 

Ah!  girding  yourself  and  throwing  your  strength 
On  the  front  of  the  forest  that  stands  in  mail, 
Sounds  gallant,  indeed,  in  a  pioneer's  tale, 
But,  God  in  heaven !  the  weariness 
Of  a  sweet  soul  banished  to  a  life  like  this ! 

This  reaching  of  weary-worn  arms  full  length; 
This  stooping  all  day  to  the  cold  stubborn  soil — 
This  holding  the  heart !  it  is  more  than  toil ! 
What  loneness  of  heart  1    what  wishing  to  die 
In  that  soul  in  the  earth,  that  was  born  for  the  sky ! 

We  parted  wood-curtains,  pushed  westward  and  we, 

Why,  we  wandered  and  wandered  a  half  year  through, 

We  tented  with  herds  as  the  Arabs  do, 

And  at  last  lay  down  by  the  sundown  sea. 

Then  there  in  that  sun  did  my  soul  take  fire ! 

It  burned  in  its  fervor,  thou  Venice,  for  thee ! 

My  glad  heart  glowed  with  the  one  desire 

To  stride  to  the  front,  to  live,  to  be! 

To  strow  great  thoughts  through  the  world  as  I  went,     . 

As  God  sows  stars  through  the  firmament. 

Venice,  1874. 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

WHEN  THE  OLD  MAN  SMOKES 

By  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

In  the  forenoon's  restful  quiet, 
When  the  boys  are  off  at  school, 
When  the  window  lights  are  shaded 
And  the  chimney  corner  cool, 


PATHETIC  467 

Then  the  old  man  seeks  his  arm-chair, 
Lights  his  pipe  and  settles  back; 
Falls  a-dreaming  as  he  draws  it 
Till  the  smoke  wreaths  gather  black. 

And  the  tear-drops  come  a-trickling 

Down  his  cheeks,  a  silver  flow — 

Smoke  or  memories  you  wonder, 

But  you  never  ask  him,  no; 

For  there's  something  almost  sacred 

To  the  other  family  folks 

In  those  moods  of  silent  dreaming 

When  the  old  man  smokes. 

Ah,  perhaps  he  sits  there  dreaming 
Of  the  love  of  other  days 
And  how  he  used  to  lead  her 
Through  the  merry  dances  maze; 
How  he  called  her  "little  princess." 
And,  to  please  her,  used  to  twine 
Tender  wreaths  to  crown  her  tresses, 
From  the  "matrimony  vine." 

Then  before  his  mental  vision 

Comes,  perhaps,  a  sadder  day, 

When  they  left  his  little  princess 

Sleeping  with  her  fellow  clay. 

How  his  young  heart  throbbed,  and  pained  him! 

Why  the  memory  of  it  chokes ! 

Is  it  of  these  things  he's  thinking 

When  the  old  man  smokes? 

But  some  brighter  thoughts  possess  him, 

For  the  tears  are  dried  the  while. 

And  the  old  worn  face  is  wrinkled 

In  a  reminiscent  smile, 

From  the  middle  of  the  forehead 

To  the  feebly  trembling  lip, 

.At  some  ancient  prank  remembered 

Or  some  unheard  of  quip. 


468  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  the  lips  relax  their  tension 
And  the  pipe  begins  to  slide, 
Till  in  little  clouds  of  ashes, 
It  falls  gently  at  his  side; 
And  his  head  bends  lower  and  lower 
Till  his  chin  lies  on  his  breast, 
And  he  sits  in  peaceful  slumber 
Like  a  little  child  at  rest. 

Dear  old  man,  there's  something  sad'ning, 
In  these  dreamy  moods  of  yours, 
Since  the  present  proves  so  fleeting, 
All  the  past  for  you  endures; 
Weeping  at  forgotten  sorrows, 
Smiling  at  forgotten  jokes; 
Life  epitomized  in  minutes, 
When  the  old  man  smokes. 

— Copyright  by  Dodd  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  arrange- 
ment. 


DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 

EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

By  W.  H.  Carruth 

A  fire  mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, 

A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cavemen  dwell; 

Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod; 

Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite  tender  sky; 

The  ripe,  rich  tints  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 

And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod; 

Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  the  tide  on  the  crescent  sea  beach, 
When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
In  our  hearts  high  yearnings 
Come  welling  and  surging  in. 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean, 
Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod ; 

Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 
469 


470  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood; 

Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  road; 

The  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  trod; 

Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

— Copyright,  and  used  by  kind  permission  of  the  author. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE 

By  Edwin  Markham 

(Written  after  seeing  Millet's  World-Famous  Painting) 

God  made  man  in  His  own  image,  in  the  image  of  God  made  He  him. — Genesis. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 
Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 
Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 
To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 
To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 
To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 
Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 
And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light? 
Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 
There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this — 
More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed- 
More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 


DRAMATIC  471 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim ! 

Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 

Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 

What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 

The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  the  aching  stoop; 

Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 

Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 

Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 

A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  questions  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is — 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

—Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page   &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

TOMMY 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

I  went  to  a  public-'ouse  to  get  a  pint  o'  beer, 

The  publican  'e  up  an'  sez,  "We  serve  no  redcoats  here." 


472  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  I  iris  be'ind  the  bar  they  laughed  an'  giggled  fit  to  die, 

I  out  into  the  street  again,  an'  to  myself  sez  I : 

O  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Tommy,  go  away"; 
But  it's  "Thank  you,  Mister  Atkins,"  when  the  band  begins  to  play, 
The  band  begins  to  play,  my  boys,  the  band  begins  to  play, 
O  it's  "Thank  you,  Mister  Atkins,"  when  the  band  begins  to  play. 

I  went  into  a  theater  as  sober  as  could  be, 
They  gave  a  drunk  civilian  room,  but  'adn't  none  for  me; 
They  sent  me  to  the  gallery  or  round  the  music-'alls, 
But  when  it  comes  to  fightin',  Lord !  they'll  shove  me  in  the  stalls  1 
For  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Tommy,  wait  outside"; 
But  it's  "Special  train  for  Atkins"  when  the  trooper's  on  the  tide, 
The  troopship's  on  the  tide,  my  boys,  the  troopship's  on  the  tide, 
O  it's  "Special  train  for  Atkins"  when  the  trooper's  on  the  tide. 

Yes,  makin'  mock  o'  uniforms  that  guard  you  while  you  sleep 

Is  cheaper  than  them  uniforms,  an'  they're  starvation  cheap; 

An'  hustlin'  drunken  soldiers  when  they're  goin'  large  a  bit 

Is  five  times  better  business  than  paradin'  in  full  kit. 

Then  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Tommy,  'ow's  yer 

soul?" 
But  it's  "Thin  red  line  of  'eroes"  when  the  drums  begin  to  roll, 
The  drums  begin  to  roll,  my  boys,  the  drums  begin  to  roll, 
O  it's  "Thin  red  line  of  'eroes"  when  the  drums  begin  to  roll. 

We  aren't  no  thin  red  'eroes,  nor  we  aren't  no  blackguards  too, 
But  single  men  in  barracks,  most  remarkably  like  you; 
An'  if  sometimes  our  conduck  isn't  all  your  fancy  paints, 
Why,  single  men  in  barracks  don't  grow  into  plaster  saints; 

While  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Tommy,  fall  be'ind," 
But  it's  "Please  to  walk  in  front,  sir,"  when  there's  trouble  in  the 

wind, 
There's  trouble  in  the  wind,  my  boys,  there's  trouble  in  the  wind, 
O  it's  "Please  to  walk  in  front,  sir,"  when  there's  trouble  in  the 
wind. 

You  talk  o'  better  food  for  us,  an'  schools,  an'  fires,  an'  all: 
We'll  wait  for  extry  rations  if  you  treat  us  rational. 
Don't  mess  about  the  cook-room  shops,  but  prove  it  to  our  face 
The  Widow's  Uniform  is  not  the  soldier-man's  disgrace. 


DRAMATIC  473 

For  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Chuck  him  out,  the 

brute !" 
But  it's  "Saviour  of  'is  country"  when  the  guns  begin  to  shoot; 
An'  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  anything  you  please; 
An'  Tommy  ain't  a  bloomin'  fool — you  bet  that  Tommy  sees! 

THE  CAVALIER'S  SONG 
By  Sir  Walter  Scott 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed,  and  away 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er  down — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for  the  Crown  I 

He  has  doff'd  the  silk  doublet  the  breastplate  to  bear, 
He  has  placed  the  steel  cap  o'er  his  long-flowing  hair, 
From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword  hangs  down — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for  the  Crown  1 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword  he  draws; 

Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his  cause; 

His  watchword  is  honor,  his  pay  is  renown — 

God  strike  with  the  Gallant  that  strikes  for  the  Crown  1 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller,  and  all 
The  roundheaded  rebels  of  Westminster  Hall; 
But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud  town, 
That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encircled  the  Crown. 

There's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of  their  foes ; 
There's  Erin's  high  Ormond,  and  Scotland's  Montrose! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massey,  and  Brown 
With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight  for  the  Crown? 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cavalier! 

Be  his  banner  unconquer'd,  resistless  his  spear, 

Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may  drown, 

In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church,  and  her  Crown. 


474  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

WAR 

Anonymous 

Ivor  never  heard  of  Rudolph, 

Rudolph  never  heard  of  Ivor, 

Yet  each  of  them  flies  at  the  other — and  dies; 

For  some  one,  somewhere,  has  said  "War!" 

Twelve  million  men  to  be  marshaled 
And  murdered  and  mangled  and  maimed ; 
Twelve  million  men,  by  the  stroke  of  the  pen, 
To  be  slaughtered — and  no  one  ashamed. 

Mountains  of  wealth  to  be  wasted, 
Oceans  of  tears  to  be  shed, 
Valleys  of  light  to  be  turned  into  night, 
Rivers  of  blood  to  run  red. 

Thousands  of  wives  to  be  widowed, 
Millions  of  mothers  to  mourn, 
Thousands  in  sorrow  to  wait  the  to-morrow, 
Millions  of  hearts  to  be  torn. 

Thousands  of  fathers  to  perish, 
Millions  of  children  to  moan, 
Ages  of  time  to  prepare  for  a  crime 
That  eons  can  never  atone. 

Thousands  of  homes  to  be  shattered, 
Millions  of  prayers  to  be  vain. 
Thousands  of  ways  to  the  glory  that  pays 
In  poverty,  panic  and  pain. 

Twelve  million  men  in  God's  image 
Sentenced  to  shoot  and  be  shot, 
Kill  and  be  killed,  as  ruler  has  willed, 
For  what — For  what — For  what? 

Ivor  never  heard  of  Rudolph, 

And  Rudolph  knows  naught  of  Ivor, 

Yet  each  of  them  flies  at  the  other — and  dies, 

For  some  one,  somewhere,  has  said  "War !" 


DRAMATIC  475 

LOVE  OF  COUNTRY 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 

Who  never  to  himself  hath  said,       * 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 

Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 

As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand ! 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 

For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell 

High  tho'  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 

Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 

SIR  GALAHAD 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

— From  "Sir  Galahad." 


476  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

OPPORTUNITY 

By  Edward  Rowland  Sill 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream : — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain ; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought,  "Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears — but  this 

Blunt  thing — !"  he  snapped  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt  buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh,  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

THE  FIRING  LINE 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

For  glory?    For  good?    For  fortune  or  fame? 

Why,  he  for  the  front  when  the  battle  is  on  I 
Leave  the  rear  to  the  dolt,  the  lazy,  the  lame, 

Go  forward  as  ever  the  valiant  have  gone; 
Whether  city  or  field,  whether  mountain  or  mine, 
Go  forward,  right  on  to  the  Firing  Line. 

Whether  newsboy  or  plowboy,  cowboy  or  clerk, 

Fight  forward,  be  ready,  be  steady,  be  first; 
Be  fairest,  be  bravest,  be  best  at  your  work; 
Exalt  and  be  glad ;  dare  to  hunger,  to  thirst, 
As  David,  as  Alfred— let  dogs  skulk  and  whine- 
There  is  room  but  for  men  on  the  Firing  Line. 


DRAMATIC  477 

Aye,  the  place  to  fight  and  the  place  to  fall — 

As  fall  we  must,  all  in  God's  good  time — 
It  is  where  the  manliest  man  is  the  wall, 

Where  boys  are  as  men  in  their  pride  and  prime, 
Where  glory  gleams  brightest,  where  brightest  eyes  shine, 
Far  out  on  the  roaring  red  Firing  Line. 


HOW  OSWALD  DINED  WITH  GOD 
By  Edwin  Markham 

Over  Northumbrian  lone,  gray  lands, 

Over  the  frozen  marl, 
Went  flying  the  fogs  from  the  fens  and  sands, 

And  the  wind  with  a  wolfish  snarl. 

Frosty  and  stiff  by  the  York  wall 

Stood  the  rusty  grass  and  the  yarrow: 

Gone  wings  and  songs  to  the  southland,  all- 
Robin  and  starling  and  sparrow. 

Weary  with  weaving  the  battle-woof, 

Came  the  king  and  his  thanes  to  the  Hall: 

Feast-fires  reddened  the  beams  of  the  roof, 
Torch  flames  waved  from  the  wall. 

Bright  was  the  gold  that  the  table  bore, 

Where  platters  and  beakers  shone: 
Whining  hounds  on  the  sanded  floor 

Looked  hungrily  up  for  a  bone. 

Laughing,  the  king  took  his  seat  at  the  board, 
With  his  gold-haired  queen  at  his  right: 

War-men  sitting  around  them  roared 
Like  a  crash  of  the  shields  in  fight. 

Loud  rose  laughter  and  lusty  cheer, 
And  gleemen  sang  loud  in  their  throats, 

Telling  of  swords  and  the  whistling  spear, 
Till  their  red  beards  shook  with  the  notes. 


478  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Varlets  were  bringing  the  smoking  boar, 

Ladies  were  pouring  the  ale, 
When  the  watchman  called  from  the  great  hall  door : 

"O  King,  on  the  wind  is  a  wail. 

"Feebly  the  host  of  the  hungry  poor 

Lift  hands  at  the  gate  with  a  cry : 
Grizzled  and  gaunt  they  come  over  the  moor, 

Blasted  by  earth  and  sky." 

"Ho!"  cried  the  king  to  the  thanes,  "make  speed — 

Carry  this  food  to  the  gates — 
Off  with  the  boar  and  the  cask  of  mead — 

Leave  but  a  loaf  on  the  plates." 

Still  came  a  cry  from  the  hollow  night: 

"King,  this  is  one  day's  feast ; 
But  days  are  coming  with  famine-blight; 

Wolf  winds  howl  from  the  east!" 

Hot  from  the  king's  heart  leaped  a  deed, 

High  as  his  iron  crown : 
(Noble  souls  have  a  deathless  need 

To  stoop  to  the  lowest  down.) 

"Thanes,  I  swear  by  Godde's  Bride 

This  is  a  cursed  thing — 
Hunger  for  the  folk  outside, 

Gold  inside  for  the  king!" 

Whirling  his  war-ax  oyer  his  head, 

He  cleft  each  plate  into  four. 
"Gather  them  up,  O  thanes,"  he  said, 

"For  the  workfolk  at  the  door. 

"Give  them  this  for  the  morrow's  meat, 

Then  shall  we  feast  in  accord : 
Our  half  of  a  loaf  will  then  be  sweet — 
Sweet  as  the  bread  of  the  Lord!" 

—From  "The  Shoes  of  Happiness  and  Other  Poems." 
Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page    &   Co.,   and   used   by  kind   permis- 
sion of  author  and  publisher. 


DRAMATIC  479 

HOW  THE  GREAT  GUEST  CAME 
By  Edwin  Markham 


Before  the  Cathedral  in  grandeur  rose, 
At  Ingelburg  where  the  Danube  goes ; 
Before  its  forest  of  silver  spires 
Went  airily  up  to  the  clouds  and  fires ; 
Before  the  oak  had  ready  a  beam, 
While  yet  the  arch  was  stone  and  dream — 
There  where  the  altar  was  later  laid, 
Conrad  the  cobbler  plied  his  trade. 

II 

Doubled  all  day  on  his  busy  bench, 

Hard  at  his  cobbling  for  master  and  hench, 

He  pounded  away  at  a  brisk  rat-tat, 

Shearing  and  shaping  with  pull  and  pat, 

Hide  well  hammered  and  pegs  sent  home, 

Till  the  shoe  was  fit  for  the  Prince  of  Rome. 

And  he  sang  as  the  threads  went  to  and  fro : 

"Whether  'tis  hidden  or  whether  it  show, 

Let  the  work  be  sound,  for  the  Lord  will  know." 

Ill 

Tall  was  the  cobbler,  and  gray  and  thin, 

And  a  full  moon  shone  where  the  hair  had  been. 

His  eyes  peered  out,  intent  and  afar, 

As  looking  beyond  the  things  that  are. 

He  walked  as  one  who  is  done  with  fear, 

Knowing  at  last  that  God  is  near. 

Only  the  half  of  him  cobbled  the  shoes: 

The  rest  was  away  for  the  heavenly  news. 

Indeed,  so  thin  was  the  mystic  screen 

That  parted  the  Unseen  from  the  Seen, 

You  could  not  tell,  from  the  cobbler's  theme 

If  his  dream  were  truth  or  his  truth  were  dream. 


480  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

IV 

It  happened  one  day  at  the  year's  white  end, 
Two  neighbors  called  on  their  old-time  friend; 
And  they  found  the  shop,  so  meager  and  mean, 
Made  gay  with  a  hundred  boughs  of  green. 
Conrad  was  stitching  with  face  ashine, 
But  suddenly  stooped  as  he  twitched  a  twine: 
"Old  friends,  good  news  1    At  dawn  to-day, 
As  the  cocks  were  scaring  the  night  away, 
The  Lord  appeared  in  a  dream  to  me, 
And  said,  'I  am  coming  your  Guest  to  beP 
So  I've  been  busy  with  feet  astir, 
Strewing  the  floor  with  branches  of  fir. 
The  wall  is  washed  and  the  shelf  is  shined, 
And  over  the  rafter  the  holly  twined. 
He  comes  to-day,  and  the  table  is  spread, 
With  milk  and  honey  and  wheaten  bread." 


His  friends  went  home;  and  his  face  grew  still 

As  he  watched  for  the  shadow  across  the  sill. 

He  lived  all  the  moments  o'er  and  o'er, 

When  the  Lord  should  enter  the  lowly  door — 

The  knock,  the  call,  the  latch  pulled  up, 

The  lighted  face,  the  offered  cup. 

He  would  wash  the  feet  where  the  spikes  had  been; 

He  would  kiss  the  hands  where  the  nails  went  in; 

And  then  at  the  last  would  sit  with  Him 

And  break  the  bread  as  the  day  grew  dim. 

VI 

While  the  cobbler  mused,  there  passed  his  pane 

A  beggar  drenched  by  the  driving  rain. 

He  called  him  in  from  the  stony  street 

And  gave  him  shoes  for  his  bruised  feet. 

The  beggar  went  and  there  came  a  crone, 

Her  face  with  wrinkles  of  sorrow  sown. 

A  bundle  of  fagots  bowed  her  back, 

And  she  was  spent  with  the  wrench  and  rack. 


DRAMATIC  481 

He  gave  her  his  loaf  and  steadied  her  load 
As  she  took  her  way  on  the  weary  road. 
Then  to  his  door  came  a  little  child, 
Lost  and  afraid  in  the  world  so  wild, 
In  the  big,  dark  world.     Catching  it  up, 
He  gave  it  the  milk  in  the  waiting  cup, 
'   And  led  it  home  to  its  mother's  arms, 
Out  of  the  reach  of  the  world's  alarms. 

VII 

The  day  went  down  in  the  crimson  west 

And  with  it  the  hope  of  the  blessed  Guest, 

And  Conrad  sighed  as  the  world  turned  gray: 

"Why  is  it,  Lord,  that  your  feet  delay? 

Did  You  forget  that  this  was  the  day?" 

Then  soft  in  the  silence  a  Voice  he  heard: 

"Lift  up  your  heart,  for  I  kept  my  word. 

Three  times  I  came  to  your  friendly  door; 

Three  times  my  shadow  was  on  your  floor. 

I  was  the  beggar  with  bruised  feet; 

I  was  the  woman  you  gave  to  eat ; 

I  was  the  child  on  the  homeless  street!" 
— From  "The  Shoes  of  Happiness  and  Other  Poems."     Copyright  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  and  used  by  kind  permission  of  author  and 
publisher. 

PICKETT'S  CHARGE 
By  Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg, 
For  three  long  days,,  with  carnage  fraught, 
Two  hundred  thousand  men  had  fought; 
And  courage  could  not  gain  the  field, 
Where  stubborn  valor  would  not  yield. 
With  Meade  on  Cemetery  Hill, 
And  mighty  Lee  thundering  still 
Upon  the  ridge  a  mile  away; 
Four  hundred  guns  in  counterplay 
Their  deadly  thunderbolts  had  hurled — 
The  cannon  duel  of  the  world! 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 


482  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg, 
Dread  war  had  never  known  such  need 
Of  some  o'ermastering,  valiant  deed ; 
And  never  yet  had  cause  so  large 
Hung  on  the  fate  of  one  brief  charge. 
To  break  the  center,  but  a  chance; 
With  Pickett  waiting  to  advance; 
It  seemed  a  crime  to  bid  him  go, 
And  Longstreet  said  not  "Yes"  nor  "No," 
But  silently  he  bowed  his  head. 
"I  shall  go  forward  1"  Pickett  said. 

Then  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

Then  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg; 
Down  from  the  little  wooded  slope, 
A-step  with  doubt,  a-step  with  hope, 
And  nothing  but  the  tapping  drum 
To  time  their  tread,  still  on  they  come. 
Four  hundred  cannon  hush  their  thunder, 
While  cannoneers  gaze  on  in  wonder! 
Two  armies  watch,  with  stifled  breath, 
Full  eighteen  thousand  march  to  death, 
At  elbow-touch,  with  banners  furled, 
And  courage  to  defy  the  world, 

In  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
None  but  tried  veterans  can  know 
How  fearful  'tis  to  charge  the  foe ; 
But  these  are  soldiers  will  not  quail, 
Though  Death  and  Hell  stand  in  their  trail! 
Flower  of  the  South  and  Longstreet's  pride, 
There's  valor  in  their  very  stride  1 
Virginian  blood  runs  in  their  veins, 
And  each  his  ardor  scarce  restrains; 
Proud  of  the  part  they're  chosen  for: 
The  mighty  cyclone  of  the  war, 

In  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
How  mortals  their  opinions  prize 
When  armies  march  to  sacrifice, 


DRAMATIC  483 

And  souls  by  thousands  in  the  fight 
On  Battle's  smoky  wing  take  flight. 
Firm-paced  they  come,  in  solid  form 
The  dreadful  calm  before  the  storm. 
Those  silent  batteries  seem  to  say: 
"We're  waiting  for  you,  men  in  gray!" 
Each  anxious  gunner  knows  full  well 
Why  every  shot  of  his  must  tell 

On  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
What  grander  tableau  can  there  be 
Than  rhythmic  swing  of  infantry 
At  shouldered  arms,  with  flashing  steel? 
As  Pickett  swings  to  left,  half-wheel, 
Those  monsters  instantly  outpour 
Their  flame  and  smoke  of  death  1  and  roar 
Their  fury  on  the  silent  air — 
Starting  a  scene  of  wild  despair : 
Lee's  batteries  roaring :     "Room !  Make  room !  1" 
With  Meade's  replying :     "Doom !     'Tis  doom 

To  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg!" 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
Now  Hancock's  riflemen  begin 
To  pour  their  deadly  missiles  in. 
Can  standing  grain  defy  the  hail? 
Will  Pickett  stop?     Will  Pickett  fail? 
His  left  is  all  uncovered  through 
That  fateful  halt  of  Pettigrew ! 
And  Wilcox  from  the  right  is  cleft 
By  Pickett's  half-wheel  to  the  left  1 
Brave  Stannard  rushes  'tween  the  walls, 
No  more  disastrous  thing  befalls 

Brave  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
How  terrible  it  is  to  see 
Great  armies  making  history : 
Long  lines  of  muskets  belching  flame! 
No  need  of  gunners  taking  aim 


484  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  from  that  thunder-cloud  of  smoke 
The  lightning  kills  at  every  stroke! 
If  there's  a  place  resembling  hell, 
Tis  where,  'mid  shot  and  bursting  shell, 
Stalks  Carnage,  arm  in  arm  with  Death, 
A  furnace  blast  in  every  breath, 

On  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
Brave  leaders  fall  on  every  hand! 
Unheard,  unheeded  all  command! 
Battered  in  front  and  torn  in  flank; 
A  frenzied  mob  in  broken  rankl 
They  come  like  demons  with  a  yell, 
And  fight  like  demons  all  pell-mell! 
The  wounded  stop  not  till  they  fall ; 
The  living  never  stop  at  all — 
Their  blood-bespattered  faces  say: 
"  'Tis  death  alone  stops  men  in  gray, 

With  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg!" 

Stopped  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg 
Where  his  last  officer  fell  dead, 
The  dauntless,  peerless,  Armistead! 
Where  ebbed  the  tide  and  left  the  slain 
Like  wreckage  from  the  hurricane — 
That  awful  spot  which  soldiers  call 
"The  bloody  angle  of  the  wall," 
There  Pickett  stopped,  turned  back  again 
Alone,  with  just  a  thousand  men! 
And  not  another  shot  was  fired — 
So  much  is  bravery  admired  1 

Pickett  had  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

Brave  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg! 
The  charge  of  England's  Light  Brigade 
Was  nothing  to  what  Pickett  made 
To  capture  Cemetery  Hill — 
To-day  a  cemetery  still, 
With  flowers  in  the  rifle-pit, 
But  no  one  cares  to  capture  it. 


DRAMATIC  485 

The  field  belongs  to  those  who  fell; 
They  hold  it  without  shot  or  shell  I 
While  cattle  yonder  in  the  vale 
Are  grazing  on  the  very  trail 

Where  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

Where  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg, 
In  after-years  survivors  came 
To  tramp  once  more  that  field  of  fame; 
And  Mrs.  Pickett  led  the  Gray, 
Just  where  her  husband  did  that  day. 
The  Blue  were  waiting  at  the  wall, 
The  Gray  leaped  over,  heart  and  all! 
Where  man  had  failed  with  sword  and  gun, 
A  woman's  tender  smile  had  won : 
The  Gray  had  captured  now  the  Blue, 
What  mortal  valor  could  not  do 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

—Copyright  by  Forbes  &  Co.,  Chicago,  and  used  by  kind  permission 
of  author  and  publisher. 


"INASMUCH  .  .  ." 
By  Edwin  Markham 

Wild  tempest  swirled  on  Moscow's  castled  height; 
Wild  sleet  shot  slanting  down  the  wind  of  night ; 
Quick  snarling  mouths  from  out  of  the  darkness  sprang 
To  strike  you  in  the  face  with  tooth  and  fang. 
Javelins  of  ice  hung  on  the  roofs  of  all; 
The  very  stones  were  aching  in  the  wall, 
Where  Ivan  stood  a  watchman  on  his  hour, 
Guarding  the  Kremlin  by  the  northern  tower, 
When,  lo !  a  half-bare  beggar  tottered  past, 
Shrunk  up  and  stiffened  in  the  bitter  blast. 
A  heap  of  misery  he  drifted  by, 
And  from  the  heap  came  out  a  broken  cry. 

At  this  the  watchman  straightened  with  a  start; 
A  tender  grief  was  tugging  at  his  heart. 


486  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  thought  of  his  dead  father,  bent  and  old 
And  lying  lonesome  in  the  ground  so  cold. 
Then  cried  the  watchman  starting  from  his  post: 
"Little  father,  this  is  yours ;  you  need  it  most  1" 
And  tearing  off  his  hairy  coat,  he  ran 
And  wrapt  it  warm  around  the  beggar  man. 

That  night  the  piling  snows  began  to  fall, 
And  the  good  watchman  died  beside  the  wall. 
But  waking  in  the  Better  Land  that  lies 
Beyond  the  reaches  of  these  cooping  skies, 
Behold,  the  Lord  came  out  to  greet  him  home, 
Wearing  the  hairy  heavy  coat  he  gave 
By  Moscow's  tower  before  he  felt  the  gravel 

And  Ivan,  by  the  old  Earth-memory  stirred, 

Cried  softly  with  a  wonder  in  his  word : 

"And  where,  dear  Lord,  found  you  this  coat  of  mine, 

A  thing  unfit  for  glory  such  as  Thine?" 

Then  the  Lord  answered  with  a  look  of  light: 

"This  coat,  My  son,  you  gave  to  Me  last  night." 

—Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

THE  MAN  UNDER  THE  STONE 

By  Edwin  Markham 

When  I  see  a  workingman  with  mouths  to  feed, 

Up,  day  after  day,  in  the  dark  before  the  dawn, 

And  coming  home,  night  after  night,  through  the  dusk, 

Swinging  forward  like  some  fierce  silent  animal, 

I  see  a  man  doomed  to  roll  a  huge  stone  up  an  endless  steep. 

He  strains  it  onward  inch  by  stubborn  inch, 

Crouched  always  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock.  .  .  . 

See  where  he  crouches,  twisted,  cramped,  misshapen : 

He  lifts  for  their  life; 

The  veins  knot  and  darken — 

Blood  surges  into  his  face.  .  .  . 

Now  he  loses — now  he  wins — 

Now  he  loses — loses — (God  of  my  soul!) 


DRAMATIC  487 

He  digs  his  feet  into  some  earth — 
There's  a  moment  of  terrified  effort.  .  .  . 
Will  the  huge  stone  break  his  hold, 
And  crush  him  as  it  plunges  to  the  gulf  ? 
The  silent  struggle  goes  on  and  on, 
Like  two  contending  in  a  dream. 

—Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

TO  GERMANY 
By  George  Sterling 

I 

Beat  back  thy  forfeit  plow-shares  into  swords : 

It  is  not  yet,  the  far,  seraphic  dream 

Of  peace  made  beautiful  and  love  supreme. 
Now  let  the  strong,  unweariable  chords 
Of  battle  shake  to  thunder,  and  the  hordes 

Advance,  where  now  the  famished  vultures  scream. 

The  standards  gather  and  the  trumpets  gleam; 
Down  the  long  hill-side  stare  the  mounted  lords. 

Now  far  beyond  the  tumult  and  the  hate, 
The  white-clad  nurses  and  the  surgeons  wait 
The  backward  currents  of  tormented  life, 
When  on  the  waiting  silences  shall  come 
The  screams  of  men,  and,  ere  those  lips  are  dumb, 
The  searching  probe,  the  ligature  and  knife. 

II 

Was  it  for  such,  the  brutehood  and  the  pain, 

Civilization  gave  her  holy  fire 

Unto  thy  wardship,  and  the  snowy  spire 
Of  her  august  and  most  exalted  fane? 
Are  these  the  harvests  of  her  ancient  rain 

Men  reap  at  evening  in  the  scarlet  mire, 

Or  where  the  mountain  smokes,  a  dreadful  pyre, 
Or  where  the  warship  drags  a  bloody  stain? 


488  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Are  these  thy  votive  lilies  and  their  dews, 

That  now  the  outraged  stars  look  down  to  see? 
Behold  them,  where  the  cold  prophetic  damps 
Congeal  on  youthful  brows  so  soon  to  lose 
Their  dream  of  sacrifice  to  thee — to  thee, 
Harlot  to  Murder  in  a  thousand  camps! 

Ill 

Was  it  for  this  that  loving  men  and  true 

Have  labored  in  the  darkness  and  the  light 
To  rear  the  solemn  temple  of  the  Right, 

On  Reason's  deep  foundations,  bared  anew 

Long  after  the  Caesarian  eagles  flew 

And  Rome's  last  thunder  died  upon  the  Night? 
Cuirassed,  the  cannon  menace  from  the  height; 

Armored,  the  new-born  eagles  take  the  blue. 

Wait  not  thy  lords  the  avenging,  certain  knell — 

One  with  the  captains  and  abhorrent  fames 
The  echoes  of  whose  conquests  died  in  Hell? — 

They  that  have  loosened  the  ensanguined  flood, 
And  whose  malign  and  execrable  names 

The  Seraph  of  the  Record  writes  in  blood. 

IV 

From  gravid  trench  and  sullen  parapet, 

Profane  the  wounded  lands  with  mine  or  shell! 

Turn  thou  upon  the  world  thy  cannons'  Hell, 
Till  many  million  women's  eyes  are  wet! 
Ravage  and  slay!     Pile  up  the  eternal  debt! 

But  when  the  fanes  of  France  and  Belgium  fell 

Another  ruin  was  on  earth  as  well, 
And  ashes  that  the  race  shall  not  forget. 

Not  by  the  devastation  of  the  guns, 

Nor  tempest-shock,  nor  steel's  subverting  edge, 
Nor  yet  the  slow  erasure  of  the  suns 

Thy  downfall  came,  betrayer  of  thy  trust! 
But  at  the  dissolution  of  a  pledge 

The  temple  of  thine  honor  sank  to  dust. 


DRAMATIC  489 


Make  not  thy  prayer  to  Heaven,  lest  perchance, 
O  troubler  of  the  world,  the  heavens  hear  I 
But  trust  in  Uhlan  and  in  cannoneer, 

And,  ere  the  Russian  hough  thee,  set  thy  lance 

Against  the  dear  and  blameless  breast  of  France  I 
Put  on  thy  mail  tremendous  and  austere, 
And  let  the  squadrons  of  thy  wrath  appear, 

And  bid  the  standards  and  the  guns  advance  1 

Those  as  an  evil  mist  shall  pass  away, 

As  once  the  Assyrian  before  the  Lord: 
Thou  standest  between  mortals  and  the  day, 

Ere  God,  grown  weary  of  thine  armored  reign, 
Lift  from  the  world  the  shadow  of  thy  sword 
And  bid  the  stars  of  morning  sing  again. 

— Copyright  by  A.  M.  Robertson,  publisher,  San  Francisco,  and  used 
by  kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

TO  THE  WAR-LORDS 

By  George  Sterling 

I 

Be  yours  the  doom  Isaiah's  voice  foretold, 

Lifted  on  Babylon,  O  ye  whose  hands 

Cast  the  sword's  shadow  upon  weaker  lands, 
And  for  whose  pride  a  million  hearths  grow  cold  I 
Ye  reap  but  with  the  cannon,  and  do  hold 

Your  plowing  to  the  murder-god's  commands ; 

And  at  your  altars  Desolation  stands, 
And  in  your  hearts  is  conquest,  as  of  old. 

The  legions  perish  and  the  warships  drown; 

The  fish  and  vulture  batten  on  the  slain ; 
And  it  is  ye  whose  word  hath  shaken  down 

The  dykes  that  hold  the  chartless  sea  of  pain. 
Your  prayers  deceive  not  men,  nor  shall  a  crown 

Hide  on  the  brow  the  murder-mark  of  Cain, 


490  DEUGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

II 

Now  glut  yourselves  with  conflict,  nor  refrain, 
But  let  your  famished  provinces  be  fed 
From  bursting  granaries  of  steel  and  lead ! 

Decree  the  sowing  of  that  deadly  grain 

Where  the  great  war-horse,  maddened  with  his  pain, 
Stamps  on  the  mangled  living  and  the  dead, 
And  from  the  entreated  heavens  overhead 

Falls  from  a  brother's  hand  a  fiery  rain. 

Lift  not  your  voices  to  the  gentle  Christ : 

Your  god  is  of  the  shambles !    Let  the  moan 
Of  nations  be  your  psalter,  and  their  youth 
To  Moloch  and  to  Bel  be  sacrificed ! 

A  world  to  which  ye  proffered  lies  alone 

Learns  now  from  Death  the  horror  of  your  truth. 

Ill 
How  have  you  fed  your  people  upon  lies, 

And  cried  "Peace!  peace!"  and  knew  it  would  not  be! 

For  now  the  iron  dragons  take  the  sea, 
And  in  the  new-found  fortress  of  the  skies, 
Alert  and  fierce  a  deadly  eagle  flies. 

Ten  thousand  cannon  echo  your  decree, 

To  whose  profound  refrain  ye  bend  the  knee. 
And  lift  into  the  Lord  of  Love  your  eyes. 

This  is  Hell's  work :  why  raise  your  hands  to  Him, 

And  those  hands  mailed,  and  holding  up  the  sword? 
There  stands  another  altar,  stained  with  red, 
At  whose  basalt  the  infernal  seraphim 
Uplift  to  Satan,  your  conspirant  lord, 

The  blood  of  nations,  at  your  mandate  shed. 
— Copyright  by  A.  M.  Robertson,  publisher,  San  Francisco,  and  used 
by  kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 
By  T.  B.  Aldrich 

(Scene:    Petrograd.    Period:     The    present    time.    A    ballroom    in 
the  winter  palace   of  the  prince.    The   ladies  in   character   costumes 


DRAMATIC  491 

and  masks.  The  gentlemen  in  official  dress  and  unmasked,  with  the 
exception  of  six  tall  figures  in  scarlet  kaftans,  who  are  treated  with 
marked  distinction  as  they  move  here  and  there  among  the  promenaders. 
Quadrille  music  throughout  the  dialogue.  Count  Sergius  Pavlovich 
Panshine,  who  has  just  arrived,  is  standing  anxiously  in  the  doorway 
of  an  antechamber  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a  lady  in  the  costume  of  a 
maid  of  honor  in  the  time  of  Catherine  II.  The  lady  presently  disen- 
gages herself  from  the  crowd,  and  passes  near  Count  Panshine,  who 
impulsively  takes  her  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  across  the  threshold  of 
the  inner  apartment,  which  is  unoccupied.) 

He.     Pauline ! 

She.    You  knew  me? 

He.     How  could  I  have  failed?    A  mask  may  hide  your  features,  not 

your  soul.    There's  an  air  about  you  like  the  air  that  folds  a 

star.    A  blind  man  knows  the  night,  and  feels  the  constellations. 

No  coarse  sense   of  eye   or  ear   had   made  you   plain  to   me. 

Through  these  I  had  not  found  you;  for  your  eyes,  as  blue  as 

violets  of  our  Novgorod,  look  black  behind  your  mask  there,  and 

your  voice — I  had  not  known  that  either.    My  heart  said,  "Paul- 
ine Pavlovna." 
She.    Ah,  your  heart  said  that?    You  trust  your  heart  then!    Tis  a 

serious  risk!    How  is  it  you  and  others  wear  no  mask? 
He.     The  Emperor's  orders. 

She.    Is  the  Emperor  here?    I  have  not  seen  him. 
He.     He  is  one  of  the  six  in  scarlet  kaftans  and  all  masked  alike. 

Watch — you  will  note  how  every  one  bows  down 

Before  those  figures ;  thinking  each  by  chance 

May  be  the  Tsar ;  yet  none  know  which  is  he. 

Even  his  counterparts  are  left  in  doubt. 

Unhappy  Russia !     No  serf  ever  wore  such  chains 

As  gall  our  Emperor  these  sad  days. 

He  dare  trust  no  man. 
She.    All  men  are  so  false. 
He.     Spare  one,  Pauline  Pavlovna. 
She.    No!  all,  all! 

I  think  there  is  no  truth  left  in  the  world, 

In  man  or  woman. 

Once  were  noble  souls. — 

Count  Sergius,  is  Nastasia  nere  to-night? 
He.     Ah!  then  you  know!     I  thought  to  tell  you  first. 


492  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Not  here,  beneath  these  hundred  curious  eyes, 

In  all  this  glare  of  light;  but  in  some  place 

Where  I  could  throw  me  at  your  feet  and  weep. 

In  what  shape  came  the  story  to  your  ears? 

Decked  in  the  teller's  colors,  I'll  be  sworn ; 

The  truth,  but  in  the  livery  of  a  lie, 

And  so  must  wrong  me.     Only  this  is  true: — 

The  Tsar,  because  I  risked  my  wretched  life 

To  shield  a  life  as  wretched  as  my  own, 

Bestows  upon  me,  as  supreme  reward — 

O  irony! — the  hand  of  this  poor  girl. 

Says,  "Here  I  have  the  pearl  of  pearls  for  you, 

Such  as  was  never  plucked  from  out  the  deep 

By  Indian  diver,  for  a  Sultan's  crown. 

Your  joy's  decreed,"  and  stabs  me  with  a  smile. 
She.    And  she — she  loves  you. 
He.     I  know  not,  indeed.     Likes  me  perhaps. 

What  matters  it? — her  love? 

Sidor  Yurievich,  the  guardian,  consents,  and  she  consents. 

No  love  in  it  at  all,  a  mere  caprice, 

A  young  girl's  spring-tide  dream. 

Sick  of  her  ear-rings,  weary  of  her  mare, 

She'll  have  a  lover — something  ready  made, 

Or  improvised  between  two  cups  of  tea — 

A  lover  by  imperial  ukase ! 

Fate  said  the  word — I  chanced  to  be  the  man  1 

If  that  grenade  the  crazy  student  threw 

Had  not  spared  me,  as  well  as  spared  the  Tsar, 

All  this  would  not  have  happened.     I'd  have  been  a  hero, 

But  quite  safe  from  her  romance. 

She  takes  me  for  a  hero — think  of  that ! 

Now  by  our  holy  Lady  of  Kazan, 

When  I  have  finished  pitying  myself,  I'll  pity  her. 
She.     Oh,  no; — begin  with  her;  she  needs  it  most. 
He.     At  her  door  lies  the  blame,  whatever  falls. 

She,  with  a  single  word,  with  half  a  tear, 

Had  stopt  it  at  the  first, 

This  cruel  juggling  with  poor  human  hearts. 
She.  The  Tsar  commanded  it — you  said  the  Tsar. 
He.     The  Tsar  does  what  she  wills — God  fathoms  why. 

Were  she  his  mistress,  now !  but  there's  no  snow 


DRAMATIC  493 

Whiter  within  the  bosom  of  a  cloud, 

No  colder  either.     She  is  very  haughty, 

For  all  her  fragile  air  of  gentleness; 

With  something  vital  in  her,  like  those  flowers 

That  on  our  desolate  steppes  outlast  the  year. 

Resembles  you  in  some  things.     It  was  that 

First  made  us  friends.    I  do  her  justice,  see! 

For  we  were  friends  in  that  smooth  surface  way 

We  Russians  have  imported  out  of  France. 

Alas !  from  what  a  blue  and  tranquil  heaven 

This  bolt  fell  on  me!     After  these  two  years, 

My  suit  with  Ossip  Leminoff  at  end, 

The  old  wrong  righted,  the  estates  restored, 

And  my  promotion,  with  the  ink  not  dry ! 

For  those  fairies  which  neglected  me  at  birth 

Seemed  now  to  lavish  all  good  gifts  on  me — 

Gold  roubles,  office,  sudden  dearest  friends. 

The  whole  world  smiled ;  then,  as  I  stooped  to  taste 

The  sweetest  cup,  freak  dashed  it  from  my  lips. 

This  very  night — just  think,  this  very  night — 

I  planned  to  come  and  beg  of  you  the  alms 

I  dared  not  ask  for  in  my  poverty. 

I  thought  me  poor  then.    How  stript  am  I  nowl 

There's  not  a  ragged  mendicant  one  meets 

Along  the  Nevski  Prospekt  but  has  leave  to  tell  his  love, 

And  I  have  not  that  right ! 

Pauline  Pavlovna,  why  do  you  stand  there 

Stark  as  a  statue,  with  no  word  to  say? 
She.    Because  this  thing  has  frozen  up  my  heart. 

I  think  that  there  is  something  killed  in  me, 

A  dream  that  would  have  mocked  all  other  bliss. 

What  shall  I  say?    What  would  you  have  me  say? 
He.      If  it  be  possible,  the  word  of  words! 
She  (very  slowly).    Well,  then — I  love  you.    I  may  tell  you  so 

This  once,  .  .  .  and  then  forever  hold  my  peace. 

We  cannot  stay  here  longer  unobserved. 

No — do  not  touch  me!  but  stand  further  off,  and 

Seem  to  laugh,  as  if  we  jested — eyes, 

Eyes,  everywhere!     Now  turn  your  face  away  .  .  . 

I  love  you. 
He.     With  such  music  in  my  ears  I  would  death  found  me. 


494  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  were  sweet  to  die  listening!  you  love  me — prove  it. 
She.     Prove  it — how?     I  prove  it  saying  it.    How  else? 
He.     Pauline,  I  have  three  things  to  choose  from;  you  shall  choose. 

This  marriage,  or  Siberia,  or  France. 

The  first  means  hell;  the  second,  purgatory; 

The  third — with  you — were  nothing  less  than  heaven  1 
She  (starting).    How  dared  you  even  dream  it! 
He.     I  was  mad.    This  business  has  touched  me  in  the  brain. 

Have  patience !  the  calamity's  so  new. 

(Pauses.)    There  is  a  fourth  way,  but  the  gate  is  shut 

To  brave  men  who  hold  life  a  thing  of  God. 
She.    Yourself  spake  there;  the  rest  was  not  of  you. 
He.     Oh,  lift  me  to  your  level  I    So  I'm  safe. 

What's  to  be  done? 
She.    There  must  be  some  path  out.    Perhaps  the  Emperor — 
He.     Not  a  ray  of  hope!    His  mind  is  set  on  this  with  that  insistence 

Which  seems  to  seize  on  all  match-making  folk — 

The  fancy  bites  them,  and  they  straight  go  mad. 
She.    Your  father's  friend,  the  metropolitan — 

A  word  from  him.  .  .  . 
He.     Alas,  he  too  is  bitten  1 

Gray-haired,  gray-hearted,  worldly-wise,  he  sees 

This  marriage  makes  me  the  Tsar's  protege 

And  opens  every  door  to  preference. 
She.    Think  while  I  think.    There  surely  is  some  key 

Unlocks  the  labyrinth,  could  we  but  find  it. 

Nastasia  1 
He.     What,  beg  life  of  her?    Not  I. 
She.    Beg  love.    She  is  a  woman,  young,  perhaps 

Untouched  as  yet  of  this  too  poisonous  air. 

Were  she  told  all,  would  she  not  pity  us? 

For  if  she  love  you,  as  I  think  she  must, 

Would  not  some  generous  impulse  stir  in  her, 

Some  latent,  unsuspected  spark  illume? 

How  love  thrills  even  commonest  girl-clay, 

Ennobling  it  an  instant  if  no  more  1 

You  said  that  she  is  proud ;  then  touch  her  pride, 

And  turn  her  into  marble  with  the  touch. 

But  yet  the  gentler  passion  is  the  stronger. 

Go  to  her,  tell  her  in  some  tenderest  phrase 


DRAMATIC  495 

That  will  not  hurt  too  much — ah,  but  'twill  hurtl 
Just  how  your  happiness  lies  in  her  hand 
To  make  or  mar  for  all  time ;  hint,  not  say, 
Your  heart  is  gone  from  you,  and  you  may  find — 
He.     A  casement  in  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul 

For,  say,  a  month ;  then  some  Siberian  town. 
Not  this  way  lies  escape.    At  my  first  word 
That  sluggish  Tartar  blood  would  turn  to  fire 
In  every  vein. 
She.     How  blindly  you  read  her, 

Or  any  woman!    Yes,  I  know,  I  grant 
How  small  we  often  seem  to  our  small  world 
Of  trivial  cares  and  narrow  precedents — 
Lacking  that  wide  horizon  stretched  for  men — 
Capricious,  spiteful,  frightened  at  a  mouse; 
But  when  it  comes  to  suffering  mortal  pangs, 
The  weakest  of  us  measures  pulse  with  you. 
He.     Yes,  you,  not  she.     If  she  were  at  your  height  I 
But  there's  no  martyr  wrapt  in  her  rose  flesh. 
There  should  have  been;  for  Nature  gave  you  both 
The  self-same  purple  for  your  eyes  and  hair, 
The  self-same  Southern  music  to  your  lips, 
Fashioned  you  both,  as  'twere,  in  the  same  mold, 
Yet  failed  to  put  the  soul  in  one  of  you ! 
I  know  her  willful — her  light  head  quite  turned 
In  this  court  atmosphere  of  flatteries ; 
A  Moscow  beauty,  petted  and  spoiled  there, 
And  since,  spoiled  here ;  as  soft  as  swan's  down,  now, 
With  words  like  honey  melting  from  the  comb, 
But  being  crossed,  vindictive,  cruel,  cold. 
I  fancy  her  between  two  rosy  smiles, 
Saying,  "Poor  fellow,  in  the  Nertchinsk  mines!" 
She.     You  know  her  not. 

Count  Sergius  Pavlovich,  you  said  no  mask 
Could  hide  the  soul,  yet  how  you  have  mistaken 
The  soul  these  two  months — and  the  face  to-night.     (She  re- 
moves mask.) 
He.     You! — it  was  you. 

She.     Count  Sergius  Pavlovich,  go  find  Pauline  Pavlovna — she  is  here— 
And  tell  her  that  the  Tsar  has  set  you  free.    (Goes  out  hurriedly.) 


496  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

GUNGA  DIN 
By  Rudyard  Kipling 

You  may  talk  o'  gin  and  beer 

When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 
An'  you're  sent  to  penny-fights  an'  Aldershot; 

But  when  it  comes  to  slaughter 

You  will  do  your  work  on  water, 
An'  you'll  lick  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im  that's  got  it 

Now  in  Injia's  sunny  clime, 

Where  I  used  to  spend  my  time 
A-servin'  of  'Er  Majesty  the  Queen, 

Of  all  them  blackfaced  crew 

The  finest  man  I  knew 
Was  our  regimental  bhisti,  Gunga  Din! 

It  was  "Din  !   Din  1   Din  1 
You  limping  lump  o'  brick-dust,  Gunga  Din  1 

Hi  1  slippery  hitherao ! 

Water,  get  it!     Pannee  lao! 
You  squidgy-nosed  old  idol,  Gunga  Din." 

The  uniform  'e  wore 

Was  nothin'  much  before, 
An'  rather  less  than  'arf  o'  that  be'ind, 

For  a  piece  o'  twisty  rag 

An'  a  goatskin  water-bag 
Was  all  the  field  equipment  'e  could  find. 

When  the  sweatin'  troop-train  lay 

In  a  sidin'  through  the  day, 
Where  the  'eat  would  make  your  bloomin'  eyebrows  crawl, 

We  shouted  "Harry  By!" 

Till  our  throats  were  bricky-dry, 
Then  we  wopped  'im  cause  'e  couldn't  serve  us  all. 

It  was  "Din  !  Din !  Din ! 

You  'eathen,  where  the  mischief  'ave  you  been? 

You  put  some  juldee  in  it 

Or  I'll  marrow  you  this  minute, 
If  you  don't  fill  up  my  helmet,  Gunga  Din !" 


DRAMATIC  497 

'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one 

Till  the  longest  day  was  done; 
An'  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 

If  we  charged  or  if  we  cut, 

You  could  bet  your  bloomin'  nut, 
'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  flank  rear. 

With  'is  mussick  on  'is  back, 

'E  would  skip  with  our  attack, 
An'  watch  us  till  the  bugles  made  "Retire," 

An'  for  all  'is  dirty  'ide 

'E  was  white,  clear  white,  inside 
When  'e  went  to  tend  the  wounded  under  fire  I 

It  was  "Din  !  Din  !  Din !" 
With  the  bullets  kickin'  dust  spots  on  the  green, 

When  the  cartridges  ran  out,  ax 

You  could  hear  the  front  lines  shout, 
"Hi!  ammunition-mules  an'  Gunga  DinP 

I  sha'n't  forgit  the  night 

When  I  dropped  be'ind  the  fight 
With  a  bullet  where  my  belt-plate  should  V  been. 

I  was  chokin'  mad  with  thirst, 

An'  the  man  that  spied  me  first 
Was  our  good  old  grinnin',  gruntin'  Gunga  Din. 

'E  lifted  up  my  head, 

An'  'e  plugged  me  where  I  bled, 
An'  'e  guv  me  'arf-a-pint  o'  water  green: 

It  was  crawlin'  and  it  stunk, 

But  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 
I'm  grate  fullest  to  one  from  Gunga  Din. 

It  was  "Din I  Dinl  Din! 
'Ere's  a  beggar  with  a  bullet  through  his  spleen; 

'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground, 

An'  'e's  kickin'  all  around : 
For  Gawd's  sake  git  the  water,  Gunga  Dm!* 

*E  carried  me  away 

To  where  a  dooli  lay, 
An'  a  bullet  came  and  drilled  the  beggar  clean. 

'E  put  me  safe  inside, 

An'  just  before  'e  died: 
"I  'ope  you  like  your  drink,"  sez  Gunga  Din. 


498  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

So  I'll  meet  'im  later  on 

At  the  place  where  'e  is  gone — 
Where  it's  always  double  drill  and  no  canteen; 

'E'll  be  squattin'  on  the  coals, 

Givin'  drink  to  poor  damned  souls, 
An'  I'll  get  a  swig  in  hell  from  Gunga  Dinl 

Yes,  Din  1  Din !  Din  1 
You  Lazarushian-leathern  Gunga  Din! 

Though  I've  belted  you  and  flayed  you, 

By  the  livin'  God  that  made  you, 
You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga  Din  1 

THE  TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  SINGER 
By  Helen  Hunt  Jackson 

The  king  rode  fast,  the  king  rode  well, 
The  royal  hunt  went  loud  and  gay, 

A  thousand  bleeding  chamois  fell 
For  royal  sport  that  day. 

When  sunset  turned  the  hill  all  red, 
The  royal  hunt  went  still  and  slow ; 

The  king's  great  horse  with  weary  tread 
Plunged  ankle-deep  in  snow. 

Sudden  a  strain  of  music  sweet, 
Unearthly  sweet,  came  through  the  wood ; 

Up  sprang  the  king,  and  on  both  feet 
Straight  in  his  saddle  stood. 

"Now,  by  our  lady,  be  it  bird, 

Or  be  it  man  or  elf  that  plays, 
Never  before  my  ears  have  heard 

A  music  fit  for  praise !" 

Sullen  and  tired,  the  royal  hunt 
Followed  the  king,  who  tracked  the  song, 

Unthinking,  as  is  royal  wont, 
How  hard  the  way  and  long. 


DRAMATIC  499 

Stretched  on  a  rock  the  shepherd  lay 
And  dreamed  and  piped,  and  dreamed  and  sang, 

And  careless  heard  the  shout  and  bay 
With  which  the  echoes  rang. 

"Up,  man!  the  king!"  the  hunters  cried. 

He  slowly  stood,  and,  wondering, 
Turned  honest  eyes  from  side  to  side : 

To  him,  each  looked  like  king. 

Strange  shyness  seized  the  king's  bold  tongue ; 

He  saw  how  easy  to  displease 
This  savage  man  who  stood  among 

His  courtiers,  so  at  ease. 

But  kings  have  silver  speech  to  use 

When  on  their  pleasure  they  are  bent ; 
The  simple  shepherd  could  not  choose; 

Like  one  in  dream  he  went. 

O  hear !     O  hear !    The  ringing  sound 

Of  twenty  trumpets  swept  the  street, 
The  king  a  minstrel  now  has  found, 

For  royal  music  meet. 

With  cloth  of  gold,  and  cloth  of  red, 

And  woman's  eyes  the  place  is  bright. 
"Now,  shepherd,  sing,"  the  king  has  said, 

"The  song  you  sang  last  night !" 

One  faint  sound  stirs  the  perfumed  air, 

The  courtiers  scornfully  look  down; 
The  shepherd  kneels  in  dumb  despair, 

Seeing  the  king's  dark  frown. 

The  king  is  just;  the  king  will  wait. 

"Ho,  guards !  let  him  be  gently  led, 
Let  him  grow  used  to  royal  state, — 

To  being  housed  and  fed." 


500  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

All  night  the  king  unquiet  lay, 
Racked  by  his  dream's  presentiment; 

Then  rose  in  haste  at  break  of  day, 
And  for  the  shepherd  sent. 

"Ho,  now,  thou  beast,  thou  savage  man, 
How  sound  thou  sleepest,  not  to  hear !" 

They  jeering  laughed,  but  soon  began 
To  louder  call  in  fear. 

They  wrenched  the  bolts ;  unrumpled  stood 
The  princely  bed  all  silken  fine, 

Untouched  the  plates  of  royal  food, 
The  flask  of  royal  wine  1 

The  costly  robes  strewn  on  the  floor, 
The  chamber  empty,  ghastly  still ; 

The  guards  stood  trembling  at  the  door, 
And  dared  not  cross  the  sill. 

All  night  the  sentinels  their  round 
Had  kept.    No  man  could  pass  that  way. 

The  window  dizzy  high  from  ground ; 
Below,  the  deep  moat  lay. 

They  crossed  themselves.   "The  foul  fiend  lurks 
In  this,"  they  said.     They  did  not  know 

The  miracles  sweet  Freedom  works, 
To  let  her  children  go. 

It  was  the  fiend  himself  who  took 
That  shepherd's  shape  to  pipe  and  sing; 

And  every  man  with  terror  shook, 
For  who  would  tell  the  king! 

The  heads  of  men  all  innocent 

Rolled  in  the  dust  that  day; 
And  east  and  west  the  bloodhounds  went, 

Baying  their  dreadful  bay; 


DRAMATIC  501 

Safe  on  a  snow  too  far,  too  high, 

For  scent  of  dogs  or  feet  of  men, 
The  shepherd  watched  the  clouds  sail  by, 

And  dreamed  and  sang  again; 

And  crossed  himself,  and  knelt  and  cried, 

And  kissed  the  holy  Edelweiss, 
Believing  that  the  fiends  had  tried 

To  buy  him  with  a  price. 

The  king  rides  fast,  the  king  rides  well; 

The  summer  hunts  go  loud  and  gay ; 
The  courtiers,  who  this  tale  can  tell, 

Are  getting  old  and  gray. 

But  still  they  say  it  was  a  fiend 
That  took  a  shepherd's  shape  to  sing, 

For  still  the  king's  heart  is  not  weaned 
To  care  for  other  thing. 

Great  minstrels  come  from  far  and  near, 

He  will  not  let  them  sing  or  play, 
But  waits  and  listens  still  to  hear 

The  song  he  heard  that  day. 

—Copyright  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  used  by  kind  per- 
mission. 

THE  DREAM  OF  CLARENCE 

By  William  Shakespeare 

O,  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  ugly  sights,  of  ghastly  dreams, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  night, 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days, 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time ! 

Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy; 


502  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloucester; 

Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 

Upon  the  hatches :  thence  we  looked  toward  England, 

And  cited  up  a  thousand  fearful  times, 

During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 

That  had  befallen  us. 

As  we  paced  along 

Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 

Methought  the  Gloucester  stumbled;  and,  in  falling, 

Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 

Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

Lord !  Lord !  methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  1 

What  dreadful  noise  of  waters  in  mine  ears ! 

What  ugly  sights  of  death  within  mine  eyes ! 

Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks; 
Ten  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnawed  upon; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea : 
Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and  in  those  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 
As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 
Which  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 
And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Methought  I  had,  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost :  but  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast  and  wandering  air; 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

My  dream  was  lengthened  after  life; 

O,  then  began  the  tempest  of  my  soul, 

Who  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 

With  that  grim  ferry-man  which  poets  write  of, 

Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first  that  did  greet  my  stranger  soul, 

Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick; 


DRAMATIC  503 

Who  cried  aloud,  "What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence?" 

And  so  he  vanished :  then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  squeaked  aloud, 
"Clarence  is  come;  false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence, 
That  stabb'd  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury : 
Seize  on  him,  Furies,  take  him  to  your  torments !" 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me  about,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that  with  the  very  noise 
I  trembling  waked,  and  for  a  season  after 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell, 
Such  terrible  impression  made  the  dream. 

THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK 
By  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce 

He  grasped  the  ponderous  hammer,  he  could  not  stand  it  more, 
To  hear  the  bomb-shells  bursting,  and  thundering  battle's  roar; 
He  said,   "The  breach  they're  mounting,   the  Dutchman's   murdering 

crew — 
I'll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads,  and  see  what  that  can  do ! 

"Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron  well; 
'Tis  Sarsfield's  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind  not  shot  or  shell;" 
"Ah,  sure,"  cried  both,  "the  horse  can  wait,  for  Sarsfield's  on  the  wall 
And  where  you  go  we'll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or  fall  1" 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into  the  street, 
His  'prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to  meet; — 
High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick  with  dauntless  hearts  they  stood, 
Where  bomb-shells  burst,  and  shot  fell  thick,  and  redly  ran  the  blood. 

"Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran;  and  mark  you,  swarthy  Ned, 
This  day  we'll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a  Dutchman's  headl 
Hurrah  1  upon  their  bloody  path,  they're  mounting  gallantly; 
And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to  this  and  me." 


504  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a  captain  brave, — 

A  captain  of  the  grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk  and  glaive ; 

He  pointed  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain  1 

For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found  his  brain  1 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a  colonel  bold ; 
Bright,  through  the  dust  of  battle,  his  helmet  flashed  with  gold — 
"Gold  is  no  match  for  iron,"  the  doughty  blacksmith  said, 
And  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foeman's  head. 

"Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick!"  black  Ned  and  Moran  cried, 
As  on  the  Dutchmen's  leaden  heads  their  hammers  well  they  plied ; 
A  bomb-shell  burst  between  them — one  fell  without  a  groan, 
One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach  was  thrown. 

"Brave  smith  1  brave  smith  1"  cried  Sarsfield,  "beware  the  treacherous 

mine! 
Brave  smith!  brave  smith!   fall  backward,  or  surely  death  is  thine!" 
The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart  and  leaped  the  blood-stained  wall, 
As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foeman,  breach  and  all ! 

Up,  like  a  red  volcano,  they  thundered  wild  and  high, — 
Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foeman  through  the  sky; 
And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that  round  the  blacksmith  fell ; — 
He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys, — they  were  avenged  well. 

On  foeman  and  defenders  a  silence  gathered  down; 

'Twas  broken  by  a  triumph  shout  that  shook  the  ancient  town, 

As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and  slew, 

And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish  hearts  could  do. 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river's  side, 
He  hammered  on  the  foe's  pontoon,  to  sink  it  in  the  tide; 
The  timber,  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack  or  strain ; 
"Mavrone !  t'won't  break !"  the  blacksmith  roared ;  "I'll  try  their  heads 
again !" 

He  rushed  upon  the  flying  ranks ;  his  hammer  ne'er  was  slack, 

For  in  thro'  blood  and  bone  it  crashed,  thro'  helmet  and  thro'  jack; 

He's  ta'en  a  Holland  captain  beside  the  red  pontoon, 

And  "Wait  vou  here,"  he  boldly  cries ;  "I'll  send  you  back  full  soon  ! 


DRAMATIC  505 

"Dost  see  this  gory  hammer?     It  cracked  some  skulls  to-day, 
And  yours  'twill  crack,  if  you  don't  stand  and  list  to  what  I  say; — 
Here !    take  it  to  your  cursed  King,  and  tell  him,  softly,  too, 
'T would  be  acquainted  with  his  skull  if  he  were  here,  not  you  1" 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy  and  blew  his  bellows  strong; 
He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o'er  it  sang  no  song; 
"Ochone  1  my  boys  are  dead !"  he  cried ;  "their  loss  I'll  long  deplore, 
But  comfort's  in  my  heart,  their  graves  are  red  with  foreign  gore." 

HYMN  OF  THE  IMPERIAL  GUARD 
By  Bartholomew  Dowling 

Up,  comrades,  up,  the  bugle  peals  the  note  of  war's  alarms, 
And  the  cry  is  ringing  sternly  round,  that  calls  the  land  to  arms; 
Adieu,  adieu,  fair  land  of  France,  where  the  vine  of  Brennus  reigns; 
We  go  where  the  blooming  laurels  grow,  on  the  bright  Italian  plains. 
Advance!  advance  1  brave  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world; 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

Our  eagles  shall  fly  'neath  many  a  sky,  with  a  halo  round  their  way 
Where  History  flings,  on  their  flashing  wings,  the  light  of  Glory's  ray; 
And  we  shall  bear  them  proudly  on,  through  many  a  mighty  fray, 
That  shall  win  old  nations  back  to  life,  in  the  glorious  coming  day. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

The  glowing  heart  of  the  land  of  Art,  throbbing  for  Liberty, 

Our  swords  invoke,  to  erase  the  yoke  from  beauteous  Italy. 

And  the  Magyar  waits,  with  kindling  hope,  the  aid  of  the  Gallic  hand, 

To  drive  the  hated  Austrians  forth,  from  the  old  Hungarian  land. 

Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world, 

For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

See  the  Briton,  pale,  as  he  dons  his  mail,  for  the  coming  conflict  shock, 
And  before  his  eyes,  see  the  phantom  rise,  of  the  Chief  on  Helena's 

rock; 
In  foreboding  fears,  already  he  hears  through  palace  and  mart  anew„ 
Our  avenging  shout,  o'er  the  battle  rout — remember  Waterloo! 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled.. 


506  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And,  hark,  a  wail   from  our  kindred   Gael,   comes   floating   from   the 

West— 
That  gallant  race,  whose  chosen  place  was  ever  our  battle's  crest; 
Now  is  the  day  we  can  repay  the  generous  debt  we  owe 
To  Irish  blood,  that  freely  flowed  to  conquer  France's  foe. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

Old  Tricolor,  as  in  days  of  yore,  you  shall  wave  o'er  vanquished  kings, 
And  your  folds  shall  fly  'neath  an  English  sky,  on  Victory's  crimson 

wings ; 
And  Europe's  shout  shall  in  joy  ring  out,  hailing  freedom  in  thy  track, 
When  our  task  is  done,  and  we  bear  thee  on,  to  France  with  glory  back. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled  world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 


THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  THE  VIKING1 

By  Bartholomew  Dowling 

My  race  is  run,  my  errand  done,  the  pulse  of  life  beats  low ; 

My  heart  is  chill,  and  the  conquering  will  has  lost  its  fiery  glow: 

Launch  once  again  on  the  northern  main  my  battleship  of  old : 

I  would  die  on  the  deck,  'mid  storm  and  wreck,  as  befits  a  Viking  bold. 

I  know  no  fears,  but  the  mist  of  years  that  has  gathered  round  my  track 
For  a  moment  clears,  and  my  youth's  compeers  again  to  my  side  come 

back; 
And  the  tall  ships  reel  o'er  their  iron  keel,  as  we  sweep  down  on  the  foe, 
Like  a  giant's  form  amid  the  storm,  where  the  mighty  tempests  blow. 

Again  I  gaze  on  the  leaping  blaze  o'er  a  conquered  city  rise, 

As  in  those  days,  when  the  Skald's  wild  lays,  sang  the  fame  of  our  high 
emprise ; 

When  our  ships  went  forth  from  the  stormy  North  with  the  Scandina- 
vian bands 

Who  backward  bore  to  the  Baltic's  shore  the  spoil  of  the  Western  lands. 

1  There  is  a  Scandinavian  legend  that  Siegfried,  the  "Viking,"  feeling  that  he 
was  at  the  point  of  death,  caused  himself  to  be  placed  on  the  deck  of  his  ship; 
the  sails  were  hoisted,  the  vessel  set  on  fire,  and  in  this  manner  he  drifted  out 
to  sea,  alone,  and  finished  his  career. 


DRAMATIC  507 

But  my  race  is  run,  my  errand  done ;  so  bear  me  to  my  ship. 
Place  my  battle-brand  in  this  dying  hand,  and  the  wine-cup  to  my  lip ; 
Then  loose  each  sail  to  the  rising  gale  and  lash  the  helm  a-lee. 
Alone,  alone,  on  my  drifting  throne,  I  would  view  my  realm,  the  sea. 

My  realm  and  grave  the  northern  wave,  where  the  tempest's  voice  will 

sing 
My  death-song  loud,  where  flame  shall  shroud  the  ocean's  warrior-king, 
Whilst  heroes  wait  at  Valhalla's  gate  to  proudly  welcome  me. 
For  my  race  is  run,  my  errand  done.     Receive  thy  Chief,  O  Sea  1 

THE  RIDE  OF  JENNIE  McNEAL 

By  Will  Carleton 

Paul  Revere  was  a  rider  bold — 

Well  has  his  valorous  deed  been  told; 

Sheridan's  ride  was  a  glorious  one — 

Often  it  has  been  dwelt  upon. 

But  why  should  men  do  all  the  deeds 

On  which  the  love  of  a  patriot  feeds? 

Hearken  to  me,  while  I  reveal 

The  dashing  ride  of  Jennie  McNeal. 

On  a  spot  as  pretty  as  might  be  found 

In  the  dangerous  length  of  the  Neutral  Ground, 

In  a  cottage  cosy,  and  all  their  own, 

She  and  her  mother  lived  alone. 

Safe  were  the  two,  with  their  frugal  store, 

From  all  of  the  many  who  passed  their  door; 

For  Jennie's  mother  was  strange  to  fears, 

And  Jennie  was  large  for  fifteen  years. 

One  night,  when  the  sun  had  crept  to  bed, 
And  rain-clouds  lingered  overhead, 
And  sent  their  surly  drops  for  proof 
To  drum  a  tune  on  the  cottage  roof, 
Close  after  a  knock  at  the  outer  door, 
There  entered  a  dozen  dragoons  or  more. 
Their  red  coats,  stained  by  the  muddy  road, 
That  they  were  British  soldiers  showed; 


508  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  captain  his  hostess  bent  to  greet, 

Saying,  "Madam,  please  give  us  a  bit  to  eat ; 

We  will  pay  you  well,  and,  if  may  be, 

This  bright-eyed  girl  for  pouring  our  tea; 

Then  we  must  dash  ten  miles  ahead, 

To  catch  a  rebel  colonel  abed. 

He  is  visiting  home,  as  doth  appear; 

We  will  make  his  pleasure  cost  him  dear." 

And  they  fell  on  the  hasty  supper  with  zeal, 

Close-watched  the  while  by  Jennie  McNeal. 

For  the  gray-haired  colonel  they  hovered  near, 

Had  been  her  true  friend,  kind  and  dear ; 

So  sorrow  for  him  she  could  but  feel, 

Brave,  grateful-hearted  Jennie  McNeal. 

With  never  a  thought  or  a  moment  more, 
Bare-headed  she  slipped  from  the  cottage  door, 
Ran  out  where  the  horses  were  left  to  feed, 
Unhitched  and  mounted  the  captain's  steed, 
And  down  the  hilly  and  rock-strewn  way 
She  urged  the  fiery  horse  of  gray. 
Around  her  slender  and  cloakless  form 
Pattered  and  moaned  the  ceaseless  storm; 
Secure  and  tight,  a  gloveless  hand 
Grasped  the  reins  with  stern  command; 
And  full  and  black  her  long  hair  streamed, 
Whenever  the  ragged  lightning  gleamed ; 
And  on  she  rushed  for  the  colonel's  weal, 
Brave,  lioness-hearted  Jennie  McNeal. 

Hark !  from  the  hills,  a  moment  mute, 
Came  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  hot  pursuit; 
And  a  cry  from  the  foremost  trooper  said, 
"Halt !  or  your  blood  be  on  your  head  I" 
She  heeded  it  not,  and  not  in  vain 
She  lashed  the  horse  with  the  bridle-rein. 
So  into  the  night  the  gray  horse  strode ; 
His  shoes  hewed  fire  from  the  rocky  road; 
And  the  high-born  courage  that  never  dies 
Flashed  from  his  rider's  coal-black  eyes. 


DRAMATIC  509 

The  pebbles  flew  from  the  fearful  race; 
The  rain-drops  grasped  at  her  glowing  face. 
"On,  on,  brave  beast !"  with  loud  appeal, 
Cried  eager,  resolute  Jennie  McNeal. 

"Haiti"  once  more  came  the  voice  of  dread; 

"Halt !  or  your  blood  be  on  your  head !" 

Then,  no  one  answering  to  the  calls, 

Sped  after  her  a  volley  of  balls. 

They  passed  her  in  her  rapid  flight, 

They  screamed  to  her  left,  they  screamed  to  her  right; 

But,  rushing  still  o'er  the  slippery  track, 

She  sent  no  token  of  answer  back, 

Except  a  silvery  laughter-peal, 

Brave,  merry-hearted  Jennie  McNeal. 

So  on  she  rushed,  at  her  own  good  will, 

Through  wood  and  valley,  o'er  plain  and  hill; 

The  gray  horse  did  his  duty  well, 

Till  all  at  once  he  stumbled  and  fell, 

Himself  escaping  the  nets  of  harm, 

But  flinging  the  girl  with  a  broken  arm. 

Still  undismayed  by  the  numbing  pain, 

She  clung  to  the  horse's  bridle-rein, 

And  gently  bidding  him  to  stand, 

Petted  him  with  her  able  hand ; 

Then  sprang  again  to  the  saddle-bow, 

And  shouted,  "One  more  trial  now !" 

As  if  ashamed  of  the  heedless  fall, 

He  gathered  his  strength  once  more  for  all, 

And,  galloping  down  a  hillside  steep, 

Gained  on  the  troopers  at  every  leap. 

No  more  the  high-bred  steed  did  reel, 

But  ran  his  best  for  Jennie  McNeal. 

They  were  a  furlong  behind,  or  more, 

When  the  girl  burst  through  the  colonel's  door, 

Her  poor  arm  helpless,  hanging  with  pain, 

And  she  all  drabbled  and  drenched  with  rain, 

But  her  cheeks  as  red  as  fire-brands  are, 

And  her  eyes  as  bright  as  a  blazing  star, 


510  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  shouted,  "Quick!  be  quick,  I  say! 
They  come !  they  come !     Away !  away !" 
Then  sank  on  the  rude  white  floor  of  deal, 
Poor,  brave,  exhausted  Jennie  McNeal. 

The  startled  colonel  sprang,  and  pressed 

His  wife  and  children  to  his  breast, 

And  turned  away  from  his  fireside  bright, 

And  glided  into  the  stormy  night; 

Then  soon  and  safely  made  his  way 

To  where  the  patriot  army  lay. 

But  first  he  bent,  in  the  dim  firelight, 

And  kissed  the  forehead  broad  and  white, 

And  blessed  the  girl  who  had  ridden  so  well 

To  keep  him  out  of  a  prison-cell. 

The  girl  roused  up  at  the  martial  din, 

Just  as  the  troopers  came  rushing  in, 

And  laughed,  e'en  in  the  midst  of  a  moan, 

Saying,  "Good  sirs,  your  bird  has  flown. 

'Tis  I  who  have  scared  him  from  his  nest; 

So  deal  with  me  now  as  you  think  best." 

But  the  grand  captain  bowed,  and  said, 

"Never  you  hold  a  moment's  dread. 

Of  womankind  I  must  crown  you  queen; 

So  brave  a  girl  I  have  never  seen. 

Wear  this  gold  ring  as  your  valor's  due; 

And  when  peace  comes  I  will  come  for  you." 

But  Jennie's  face  an  arch  smile  wore, 

As  she  said,  "There's  a  lad  in  Putnam's  Corps, 

Who  told  me  the  same,  long  time  ago ; 

You  two  would  never  agree,  I  know. 

I  promised  my  love  to  be  true  as  steel," 

Said  good,  sure-hearted  Jennie  McNeal. 

— From  "Centennial  Rhymes." 

CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 
By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

The  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked  hand ; 
The  decks  were  like  a  slide,  where  a  seaman  scarce  could  stand ; 


DRAMATIC  511 

The  wind  was  a  nor'wester,  blowing  squally  off  the  sea ; 
And  cliffs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  things  a-lee. 

They  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of  day; 
But  'twas  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill  we  lay. 
We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck  instanter,  with  a  shout, 
And  we  gave  her  the  maintops'l,  and  stood  by  to  go  about. 

All  day  we  tacked  and  tacked  between  the  South  Head  and  the  North ; 
All  day  we  hauled  the  frozen  sheets,  and  got  no  further  forth; 
All  day  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread, 
For  very  life  and  nature  we  tacked  from  head  to  head. 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide-race  roared ; 
But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head  close  aboard : 
So's  we  saw  the  cliffs  and  houses,  and  the  breakers  running  high, 
And  the  coastguard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass  against  his  eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean  foam ; 
The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every  'longshore  home ; 
The  windows  sparkled  clear,  and  the  chimneys  volleyed  out  ; 
And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went  about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty  jovial  cheer; 
For  it's  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days  in  the  year) 
This  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn, 
And  the  house  above  the  coastguard's  was  the  house  where  I  was  born. 

O  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasant  faces  there, 
My  mother's  silver  spectacles,  my  father's  silver  hair; 
And  well  I  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  flight  of  homely  elves, 
Go  dancing  round  the  china-plates  that  stand  upon  the  shelves. 

And  well  I  knew  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was  of  me, 
Of  the  shadow  on  the  household  and  the  son  that  went  to  sea; 
And  O  the  wicked  fool  I  seemed,  in  every  kind  of  way, 
To  be  here  and  hauling  frozen  ropes  on  blessed  Christmas  Day. 

They  lit  the  high  sea-light,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 

"All  hands  to  loose  topgallant  sails,"  I  heard  the  captain  call. 

"By  the  Lord,  she'll  never  stand  it,"  our  first  mate,  Jackson,  cried, 

.  .  .  "It's  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  replied. 


512  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new  and  good, 
And  the  ship  smelt  up  to  windward  just  as  though  she  understood. 
As  the  winter's  day  was  ending,  in  the  entry  of  the  night, 
We  cleared  the  weary  headland,  and  passed  below  the  light. 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on  board  but  me, 

As  they  saw  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out  to  sea ; 

But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold, 

Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were  growing  old. 


THE  REVENGE 

By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 

And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came  flying  from  far  away: 

"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea !  we  have  sighted  fifty-three  I" 

Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard :     "  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward ; 

But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear, 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line;  can  we  fight  with  fifty-three?" 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I  know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 

But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

So  Lord  Howard  pass'd  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below ; 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 

To  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  'til  the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 


DRAMATIC  513 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again :  "We  be  all  good  Englishmen. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the  devil, 

For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd  and  we  roar'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick  below ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the  long  sea-lane  between. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their  decks  and  laugh'd. 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 

By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us  like  a  cloud, 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard  lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself  and  went, 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill  content ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over  the  summer 

sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 


514  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle-thunder  and  flame ; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her  dead  and 

shame. 
FQr  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us 

no  more — 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world  before? 

For  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on !" 

Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer  night  was  gone, 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 

But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 

And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the  head, 

And  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on !" 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far  over  the  summer 

sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd  that  we  still  could 

sting, 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  we  were, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  the  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate  strife; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was  all  of  it 

spent ; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride: 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain !" 


DRAMATIC  515 

And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made  reply: 

"We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives, 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again,  and  to  strike  another  blow." 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him  then, 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 

And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly  foreign  grace; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried : 

"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do. 

With  a  joyful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  die!" 

And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and  true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few; 

Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew, 

But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down  into  the  deep, 

And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien  crew, 

And  away  she  sailed  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her  own; 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts  and  their 

flags, 
And  the   whole   sea   plunged   and    fell   on   the   shot-shatter'd   navy   of 

Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EAST  AND  WEST 
By  Rudyard  Kipling 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judgment  Seat ; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  though  they  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth. 


516  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border-side, 

And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the  Colonel's  pride. 

He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable  door  between  the  dawn  and  the  day, 

And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden  her  far  away. 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop  of  the  Guides : 

"Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where  Kamal  hides?" 

Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son  of  the  Ressaldar: 

"If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning  mist,  ye  know  where  his  pickets 

are. 
At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into  Bonair; 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place  to  fare. 
So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly, 
By  the  favor  of  God,  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win  the  tongue  of 

Jagai. 
But  if  he  be  passed  the  tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly  turn  ye  then— 
For  the  length  and  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain  is  sown  with  Kamal's 

men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean  thorn 

between, 
And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never  a  man  is  seen." 

The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw  rough  dun  was  he, 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell,  and  the  heart  of  hell,  and  the  head  of  a 

gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won ;  they  bid  him  stay  to  eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not  long  at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he  can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare,  with  Kamal  upon  her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he  made  the  pistol  crack. 
He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whistling  ball  went  wide. 
"Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.     "Show  now  if  ye  can  ride." 

It's  up  and  over  the  tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust-devils  go — 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like  a  barren  doe. 
The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit,  and  slugged  his  head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle  bars  like  a  maiden  plays  with 

her  love. 
There  was  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean  thorn 

between, 
And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick,  though  never  a  man  was  seen. 


DRAMATIC  517 

They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their  hoofs  drum  up 

the  dawn — 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare  like  a  new  roused 

fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woeful  heap  fell  he, 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and  pulled  the  rider  free. 

He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small  room  was  there  to 

strive — 
"  'Twas  only  by  favor  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "ye  rode  so  long  alive : 
There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not  a  clump  of  tree, 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle  cocked  on  his  knee. 
If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand  as  I  have  carried  it  low, 
The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  were  feasting  all  in  a  row: 
If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have  held  it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged  till  she  could  not  fly." 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son :     "Do  good  to  bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  comes  for  the  broken  meats  before  thou  makest  a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry  my  bones  away, 
Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a  thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop,  their  men  on  the  gar- 
nered grain; 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when  all  the  cattle  are 

slain. 
But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and  gear  and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my  own  way  back!" 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him  upon  his  feet. 
"No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "when  wolf  and  gray  wolf  meet. 
May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or  breath; 
What   dam   of  lances  brought  thee   forth  to  jest  at  the  dawn   with 
Death?" 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son :  "I  hold  by  the  blood  of  my  clan : 
Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — by.  God  she  has  carried  a  man !" 
The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled  against  his  breast. 
"We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kamal  then,  "but  she  loveth  the  younger 

best. 
So  shall  she  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise-studded  rein, 
My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver  stirrups  twain." 


518  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle-end. 

"Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he;  "will  ye  take  the  mate 

from  a  friend?" 
"A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "a  limb  for  the  risk  of  a 

limb. 
Thy  father  hath  sent  his  son  to  me — I'll  send  my  son  to  him !" 
With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped  from  a  mountain 

crest — 
He  trod  the  links  like  a  buck  in  Spring,  and  he  looked  a  lance  in  rest. 
• 

"Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "who  leads  a  troop  of  the 

Guides, 
And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side,  as  shield  on  shoulder  rides. 
Till  death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie  at  camp,  and  board  and  bed, 
Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  to  guard  him  with  thy  head. 
So  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all  her  foes  are  thine, 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace  at  the  Border- 
line; 
And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy  way  to  power — 
Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Rassaldar  when  I  am  hanged  in  Pes- 
hawur." 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and  there  they  found 
no  fault; 

They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on  fire  and  fresh- 
cut  sod. 

On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and  the  wond'rous 
Names  of  God. 

The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare,  and  Kamal's  boy  the  dun, 

And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where  there  went  forth  but 
one. 

And  when  they  drew  to  the  quarter-guard,  full  twenty  swords  flew 
clear — 

There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the  blood  of  the  moun- 
taineer. 

"Ha'  done!  ha*  done!"  said  the  Colonel's  son.  "Put  up  the  steel  at 
your  sides! 

Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief— to-night  'tis  a  man  of  the 
Guides," 


DRAMATIC  519 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  though  they  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  Earth. 

THE  BRAVEST  BATTLE 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

The  bravest  battle  that  ever  was  fought ; 

Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  when? 
On  the  maps  of  the  world  you  will  find  it  not; 

It  was  fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 

Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 

With  sword  or  nobler  pen ; 
Nay,  not  with  eloquent  word  or  thought, 

From  mouths  of  wonderful  men, 

But  deep  in  a  walled-up  woman's  heart— 

Of  woman  that  would  not  yield, 
But  patiently,  silently  bore  her  part— 

Lo !  there  in  that  battlefield. 

No  marshaling  troop,  no  bivouac  song; 

No  banner  to  gleam  and  wave ; 
And  oh !  these  battles  they  last  so  long— 

From  babyhood  to  the  grave ! 

Yet,  faithful  still  as  a  bridge  of  stars, 

She  fights  in  her  walled-up  town — 
Fights  on  and  on  in  the  endless  wars, 

Then  silent,  unseen — goes  down. 

0  ye  with  banners  and  battle  shot 
And  soldiers  to  shout  and  praise, 

1  tell  you  the  kingliest  victories  fought 
Are  fought  in  these  silent  ways. 


520  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

O  spotless  woman  in  a  world  of  shame  I 

With  splendid  and  silent  scorn, 
Go  back  to  God  as  white  as  you  came, 
The  kingliest  warrior  born. 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

[in  springfield,  ill.] 

By  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 

It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 

That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 

Near  the  old  courthouse  pacing  up  and  down. 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play, 

Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 

A  bronzed,  lank  man  1     His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high-top  hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 

Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie  lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  can  not  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now, 

He  is  among  us — as  in  times  before  1 
And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long 

Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.    He  thinks  on  men  and  kings, 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep? 

Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why, 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart, 
He  sees  the  dreadnoughts  scouring  every  main. 

He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 


DRAMATIC  521 

He  can  not  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come — the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free; 

The  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth, 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp  and  Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  kings  must  murder  still, 

That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.     And  who  will  bring  white  peace 

That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 

CORONATION 
By  Helen  Hunt  Jackson 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 

The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 

Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 
Watching  the  hour  glass  sifting  down 

Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me?" 

The  beggar  turned,  and  pitying, 
Replied,  like  one  in  dream,  "Of  thee, 

Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Up  rose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 

Shook  off  the  crown,  and  threw  it  by. 
"O  man,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 

"A  greater  king  than  I." 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 

Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 
Whispered  the  king,  "Shall  I  know  when 

Before  his  throne  I  stand?" 


522  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  beggar  laughed.    Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  cfown  had  traced. 
"This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 

Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun; 
Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 

The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"Ho  here !    Ho  there !     Has  no  man  seen 

The  king  ?"     The  cry  ran  to  and  fro ; 
Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween, 

The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray; 

The  king  came  not.     They  called  him  dead ; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

— Copyright  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

A  PRAYER  IN  KHAKI 
By  Robert  Garland 

0  Lord,  my  God,  accept  my  prayer  of  thanks 
That  Thou  hast  placed  me  humbly  in  the  ranks 
Where  I  can  do  my  part,  all  unafraid — 

A  simple  soldier  in  Thy  great  crusade. 

1  pray  thee,  Lord,  let  others  take  command ; 
Enough  for  me,  a  rifle  in  my  hand; 

Thy  blood-red  banner  ever  leading  me 
Where  I  can  fight  for  liberty  and  Thee. 

Give  others,  God,  the  glory;  mine  the  right 
To  stand  beside  my  comrades  in  the  fight, 
To  die,  if  need  be,  in  some  foreign  land — 
Absolved  and  solaced  by  a  soldier's  hand. 


DRAMATIC  523 

O  Lord,  my  God,  pray  harken  to  my  prayer 
And  keep  me  ever  humble,  keep  me  where 
The  fight  is  thickest,  where,  'midst  steel  and  flame 
Thy  sons  give  battle,  calling  on  Thy  name. 

— From  the  Outlook. 

THE  YANKEE  MAN  OF  WAR 

Anonymous 

Tis  of  a  gallant  Yankee  ship  that  flew  the  stripes  and  stars, 

And  the  whistling  wind   from  the  west-nor'-west  blew  through  the 

pitch-pine  spars; 
With  her  starboard  tacks  aboard,  my  boys,  she  hung  upon  the  gale ; 
On  an  autumn  night  we  raised  the  light  on  the  old  Head  of  Kinsale. 

It  was  a  clear  and  cloudless  night,  and  the  wind  blew  steady  and  strong, 
As  gayly  over  the  sparkling  deep  our  good  ship  bowled  along ; 
With  the  foaming  seas  beneath  her  bow  the  fiery  waves  she  spread, 
And  bending  low  her  bosom  of  snow,  she  buried  her  lee  cat-head. 

There  was  no  talk  of  shortening  sail  by  him  wha  walked  the  poop, 
And  under  the  press  of  her  pond'ring  jib,  the  boom  bent  like  a  hoop! 
And  the  groaning  water-ways  told  the  strain  that  held  her  stout  main- 
tack, 
But  he  only  laughed  as  he  glanced  aloft  at  a  white  and  silvery  track. 

The  mid-tide  meets  in  the  Channel  waves  that  flow  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  the  mist  hung  heavy  upon  the  land  from  Featherstone  to  Dunmore, 
And  that  sterling  light  in  Tusker  Rock  where  the  old  bell  tolls  each 

hour, 
And  the  beacon  light  that  shone  so  bright  was  quench'd  on  Waterford 

Tower. 

What  looms  upon  our  starboard  bow?    What  hangs  upon  the  breeze? 
'Tis  time  our  good  ship  hauled  her  wind  abreast  the  old  Saltees, 
For  by  her  ponderous  press  of  sail  and  by  her  consorts  four 
We  saw  our  morning  visitor  was  a  British  man-of-war. 

Up  spake  our  noble  Captain  then,  as  a  shot  ahead  of  us  past — 
"Haul  snug  your  flowing  courses !  lay  your  topsail  to  the  mast !" 


524  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Those  Englishmen  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  from  the  deck  of  their  cov- 
ered ark 

And  we  answered  back  by  a  solid  broadside  from  the  decks  of  our 
patriot  bark. 

"Out  booms  1  out  booms  1"  our  skipper  cried,  "out  booms  and  give  her 

sheet," 
And  the  swiftest  keel  that  was  ever  launched  shot  ahead  of  the  British 

fleet, 
And  amidst  a  thundering  shower  of  shot,  with  stun'sails  hoisting  away, 
Down  the  North  Channel  Paul  Jones  did  steer  just  at  the  break  of  day. 

WARREN'S  ADDRESS 

By  John  Pierpont 

Stand !     The  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  1 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel  1 

Ask  it — ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you ! — they're  afire  1 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !     From  the  vale 
On  they  come! — and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust  1 
Die  we  may — and  die  we  must; 
But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consign'd  so  well 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyr'd  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell? 


DRAMATIC  525 

THE  FLAG  GOES  BY 

By  Henry  Holcomb  Bennett 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 

A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky: 

Hats  off  1 

The  flag  is  passing  by! 

Blue  and  crimson  and  white  it  shines, 

Over  the  steel-tipped  ordered  lines. 

Hats  off! 

The  colors  before  us  fly; 

But  more  than  the  flag  is  passing  by : 

Sea  fights  and  land  fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  to  save  the  state; 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships ; 
Cheers  of  victory  on  dying  lips ; 

Days  of  plenty  and  years  of  peace; 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase; 
Equal  justice,  right  and  law, 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe; 

Sign  of  a  nation,  great  and  strong, 

To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong; 

Pride  and  glory  and  honor — all 

Live  in  the  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums; 

And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high: 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by ! 


526  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"HE  LIFTETH  THEM  ALL  TO  HIS  LAP' 
By  Robert  McIntyre 

Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink, 

Greaser  and  Nigger  and  Jap. 
The  Devil  invented  these  terms,  I  think, 

To  hurl  at  each  hopeful  chap 
Who  comes  so  far  o'er  the  foam 

To  this  land  of  his  heart's  desire, 
To  rear  his  brood,  to  build  his  home, 

And  to  kindle  his  hearthstone  fire. 
While  the  eyes  with  joy  are  blurred, 

Lo!  we  make  the  strong  man  shrink 
And  stab  the  soul  with  the  hateful  word — 

Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink. 

Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink, 

These  are  the  vipers  that  swarm 
Up  from  the  edge  of  Perdition's  brink 

To  hurt,  and  dishearten,  and  harm. 
O  shame  I  when  their  Roman  forbears  walked 

Where  the  first  of  the  Caesars  trod. 
O  shame ;  where  their  Hebrew  fathers  talked 

With  Moses  and  he  with  God. 
These  swarthy  sons  of  Life's  sweet  drink 

To  the  thirsty  world,  which  now  gives  them 
Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink. 

Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink, 

Greaser  and  Nigger  and  Jap. 
From  none  of  them  doth  Jehovah  shrink, 

He  lifteth  them  all  to  His  lap ; 
And  the  Christ,  in  His  kingly  grace, 

When  their  sad,  low  sob  he  hears 
Puts  His  tender  embrace  around  our  race 

As  He  kisses  away  its  tears, 
Saying,  "O  least  of  these,  I  link 

Thee  to  Me  for  whatever  mayhap :" 
Dago  and  Sheeny  and  Chink, 

Greaser  and  Nigger  and  Jap. 


DRAMATIC  527 

UNDER  THE  TAN 
By  Lewis  Worthington  Smith 

Italians,   Magyars,  aliens  all — 

Human   under  the  tan — 
Eyes  that  can  smile  when  their  fellows  call, 

A  spike-driver  each,  but  a  man. 
Rumble  and  roar !     On  the  tracks  they  lay, 

We  ride  in  our  parlor  car. 
Spades  on  their  shoulders,  they  give  us  way, 

Lords  of  the  near  and  the  far. 

Polack  and  Slav  and  dark-browed  Greek- 
Human  under  the  tan — 

Up  go  their  hands,  and  their  faces  speak, 
Saluting  us,  man  and  man. 

Cushioned  seats  and  our  souls  at  ease, 
Dainty  in  food  and  fare, 

We  are  the  masters  their  toil  must  please, 
Or  face  gaunt-cheeked  despair. 

Russian  and  Irishman,  Croat  and  Swede — 

Human  under  the  tan — 
Giving  us  homage  while  making  us  speed, 

As  only  the  generous  can. 
Riding  and  riding,  hats  in  our  hands, 

Something  warm  in  the  eye. 
Fellows,  in  spite  of  your  skins  and  lands, 

We  greet  you,  rushing  by. 

— In  the  New  York  Evening  Post. 

MY  LOST  YOUTH 
By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 


528  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 
And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill  ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  1 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 


DRAMATIC  529 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 
And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 

But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 


530  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


SUBLIME  SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 

SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC 
By  Abram  J.  Ryan 

I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone  I 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own ; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown  1 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 
Where  I  met  but  the  human — and  sin. 

I  walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly; 

I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave ; 
And  I  said:     "In  the  world  each  Ideal, 

That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave, 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave." 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 
And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True; 

I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
But  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  its  Blue : 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  Mortal 

Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

531 


532  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 
And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men, 

Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar 
And  I  heard  a  voice  call  me.    Since  then 

I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley? 

Tis  my  Trysting-Place  with  the  Divine. 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said:     "Be  mine." 
And  there  rose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo — "My  heart  shall  be  thine." 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 

I  weep — and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dew-drops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 
And  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  Censers, 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach ; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 
Ah  me!  how  my  spirit  was  stirred! 

And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard ; 

They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  Virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word ! 


SUBLIME  533 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 

Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care? 
It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 

And  God  and  His  angels  are  there : 
And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 

And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer. 

THE  SEA 
By  Barry  Cornwall 

The  sea  1  the  sea !  the  open  sea  1 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  1 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies, 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea,  I'm  on  the  sea, 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be, 

With  the  blue  above  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh  1  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
Where  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
And  whistles  aloft  its  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  southwest  wind  doth  blowl 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  her  mother's  nest, — 
And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me, 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea. 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 


534  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild, 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child. 

I  have  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  rover's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  or  sighed  for  change, 
And  death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wide,  unbounded  seal 


THE  GREAT  ADVANCE 
By  Thomas  Walsh 

In  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  drums 
And  the  sweep  of  the  bugles  calling; 

The  day  of  the  Great  Adventure  comes, 
And  the  tramp  of  feet  is  falling,  falling, 

Ominous  falling,  everywhere, 

By  street  and  lane,  by  field  and  square — 
To  answer  the  Voice  appealing! 

One  by  one  they  have  put  down 

The  tool,  the  pen,  and  the  racquet; 
One  by  one  they  have  donned  the  brown 

And  the  blue,  the  knapsack  and  jacket; 
With  a  smile  for  the  friend  of  a  happier  day, 
With  a  kiss  for  the  love  that  would  bid  them  stay- 

They  are  off  by  the  train  and  packet. 

What  fate,  what  star,  what  sun,  what  field, 

What  sea  shall  know  their  daring? 
Shall  the  battle  reek  or  the  dead  calm  yield 

Their  wreaths  that  are  preparing? 
Shall  they  merely  stand  and  wait  the  call? 
Shall  they  hear  it,  rush  and  slay  and  fall?— 

What  matter? — their  swords  are  baring  I 


SUBLIME  535 

We  stand  in  the  crowds  that  see  them  go — 

We  who  are  old  and  weak,  unready; 
We  see  the  red  blood  destined  to  flow 

Flushing  their  cheeks,  as  with  footstep  steady 
With  a  tramp  and  a  tramp,  they  file  along, 
Our  brave,  our  true,  our  young,  our  strong — 

And  the  fever  burns  us  fierce  and  heady. 

With  God,  then  forth,  by  sea  and  land, 

To  your  Adventure  beyond  story, 
No  Argonaut,  no  Crusader  band 

Ere  passed  with  such  exceeding  glory! 
Though  ye  seek  fields  both  strange  and  far, 
Ye  are  at  home  where  heroes  are ! 
Such  is  the  prayer  we  send  your  star — 

We  who  are  weak  and  old  and  hoary. 

WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME 

By  Ina  Coolbrith 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying,— 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer-blooms  nor  winter-snows, 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing: 
Gose  above  me  as  you  pass, 
You  will  say,  "How  kind  she  was," 
You  will  say,  "How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Holden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom, — 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  sing, 
Nevermore  for  anything, 
You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 
Sweet  small  voices,  odorous, 
Tender  pleaders  in  my  cause, 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


536  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  mel 
Ah,  beloved,  in  my  sorrow 
Very  patient,  I  can  wait, 
Knowing  that,  or  soon  or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow: 
When  your  heart  will  moan :  "Alas  I 
Now  I  know  how  true  she  was ; 
Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was" — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  mel 

— Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


RIGHTEOUS  WRATH 

By  Henry  Van  Dyke 

There  are  many  kinds  of  hate,  as  many  kinds  of  fire; 
And  some  are  fierce  and  fatal  with  murderous  desire; 
And  some  are  mean  and  craven,  revengeful,  selfish,  slow, 
They  hurt  the  man  that  holds  them  more  than  they  hurt  his  foe. 

And  yet  there  is  a  hatred  that  purifies  the  heart. 
The  anger  of  the  better  against  the  baser  part, 
Against  the  false  and  wicked,  against  the  tyrant's  sword, 
Against  the  enemies  of  love,  and  all  that  hate  the  Lord. 

O  cleansing  indignation,  O  flame  of  righteous  wrath, 
Give  me  a  soul  to  see  thee  and  follow  in  thy  path  1 
Save  me  from  selfish  virtue,  arm  me  for  fearless  fight, 
And  give  me  strength  to  carry  on,  a  soldier  of  the  Right  1 

— Outlook. 

APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN 

By  Lord  Byron 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 


SUBLIME  537 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 

To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 

What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin, — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore :  upon  the  watery  plain, 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncomn'd,  and  unknown. 


TO  THE  SIERRAS 
By  J.  J.  Owen 

Ye  snow-capped  mountains,  basking  in  the  sun, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  that  deck  the   summer  sides, 

On  you  I  gaze,  when  day's  dull  task  is  done, 
Till  night  shuts  out  your  glories  from  my  eyes. 

For  stormy  turmoil,  and  ambition's   strife, 
I  find  in  you  a  solace  and  a  balm, — 

Derive  a  higher  purpose,  truer  life, 
From  your  pale  splendor,  passionless  and  calm. 

Mellowed  by  distance,  all  your  rugged  cliffs, 
And  deep  ravines,  in  graceful  outlines  lie; 

Each  giant  form  in  silent  grandeur  lifts 
Its  hoary  summit  to  the  evening  sky. 

I  reck  not  of  the  wealth  untold,  concealed 
Beneath  your  glorious  coronal  of   snows, 

Whose  budding  treasure  yet  but  scarce  revealed, 
Shall  blossom  into   trade — a  golden   rose. 


538  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

A  mighty  realm  is  waking  at  your  feet 
To  life  and  beauty,  from  the  lap  of  Time, 

With  cities  vast,  where  millions  yet  shall  meet, 
And  Peace  shall  reign  in  majesty  sublime. 

Rock-ribbed  Sierras,  with  your  crests  of  snow, 
A  type  of  manhood,  ever  strong  and  true, 

Whose  heart  with  golden  wealth  should  ever  glow, 
Whose  thoughts  in  purity  should   symbol  you. 

SUNSET 
By  Ina  Coolbrith 

Along  yon  purple  rim  of  hills, 
How  bright  the  sunset  glory  lies! 
Its  radiance  spans  the  western  skies, 

And  all  the  slumbrous  valley  fills: 

Broad  shafts  of  lurid  crimson,  blent 
With  lustrous  pearl  in  massed  white ; 
And  one  great  spear  of  amber  light 

That  flames  o'er  half  the  firmament! 

Vague,  murmurous  sounds  the  breezes  bear; 
A  thousand  subtle  breaths  of  balm, 
From  some  far  isle  of  tropic  calm, 

Are  borne  upon  the  tranced  air. 

And,  mufHing  all  its  giant-roar, 
The  restless  waste  of  waters,  rolled 
To  one  broad  sea  of  liquid  gold, 

Goes  singing  up  the  shining  shore ! 

SOMETHING  TO  LOVE 

By  William  Bansman 

There  are  beautiful  thoughts  in  the  day-dreams  of  life, 
When  youth  and  ambition  join  hands  for  the  strife; 


SUBLIME  539 

There  are  joys  for  the  gay,  which  come  crowding  apace, 
And  hang  out  the  rainbow  of  hope  for  the  race; 
There  are  prizes  to  gain,  which  ascend  as  we  climb, 
But  the  struggle  to  win  them  makes  effort  sublime. 
Each  cloud  that  arises  has  fingers  of  gold, 
Inviting  the  timid  and  nerving  the  bold; 
Each  sorrow  is  tempered  with  something  of  sweet, 
And  the  crag,  while  it  frowns,  shows  a  niche  for  the  feet. 
There  are  charms  in  the  verdure  which  nature  has  spread, 
And  the  sky  shows  a  glory  of  stars  overhead, 
And  the  zephyrs  of  summer  have  voices  to  woo, 
As  well  as  to  bear  the  perfumes  from  the  dew ; 
There  are  gushes  of  transport  in  dreams  of  the  night, 
When  memory  garners  its  thoughts  of  delight, 
And  the  soul  seeks  its  kindred,  and  noiselessly  speaks, 
In  the  smiles  and  the  blushes  of  health-blooming  cheeks. 
There  are  rapturous  melodies  filling  the  heart, 
With  emotions  which  nothing  beside  could  impart ; 
And  yet,  though  this  cumulous  picture  may  show 
The  brightest  of  joys  which  ambition  would  know- 
Though  the  heaven  it  opens  is  one  of  surprise, 
All  gorgeous  with  hope,  and  prismatic  with  dyes, 
Satiety  follows  these  transports  of  bliss, 
And  the  heart  asks  a  lodgment  more  real  than  this; 
Like  the  dove,  it  will  wander,  and  still,  like  the  dove, 
Come  back,  till  it  rests  upon  something  to  love. 


OUT  IN  THE  FIELDS  WITH  GOD 
By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

The  little  cares  that  fretted  me, 

I  lost  them  yesterday 
Among  the  fields  above  the  sea, 

Among  the  winds  at  play, 
Among  the  lowing  of  the  herds, 

The  rustling  of  the  trees, 
Among  the  singing  of  the  birds, 

The  humming  of  the  bees. 


540  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  foolish  fears  of  what  may  happen, 

I  cast  them  all  away 
Among  the  clover-scented  grass, 

Among  the  new-mown  hay, 
Among  the  husking  of  the  corn 

Where  drowsy  poppies  nod, 
Where  ill  thoughts  die  and  good  are  born. 

Out  in  the  fields  with  God. 

BROTHERHOOD 

By  Edwin  Markham 

The  crest  and  crowning  of  all  good, 

Life's  final  star,  is  Brotherhood; 

For  it  will  bring  again  to  Earth 

Her  long-lost  Poesy  and  Mirth; 

Will  send  new  light  on  every  face, 

A  kingly  power  upon  the  race. 

And  till  it  come,  we  men  are  slaves, 

And  travel   downward  to  the  dust  of  graves. 

Come,  clear  the  way,  then,  clear  the  way: 

Blind  creeds  and  kings  have  had  their  day. 

Break  the  dead  branches  from  the  path: 

Our  hope  is  in  the  aftermath — 

Our  hope,  is  in  heroic  men, 

Star-led  to  build  the  world  again. 

To  this  Event  the  ages  ran: 

Make  way  for  Brotherhood — make  way  for  Man. 

— Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


MORNING 
By  Edward  Rowland  Sill 

I  entered  once,  at  break  of  day, 
A  chapel,  lichen-stained  and  gray, 


SUBLIME  541 

Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 

An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 

No  light  through  the  window-panes  could  pass, 

For  shutters  were  closed  on  the  rich  stained  glass, 

And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night, 

The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light, 

Ghostly  with  shadows  that  shrunk  and  grew 

As  the  dim  light  flared  on  aisle  and  pew; 

And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around 

Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound — 

Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 

And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 

Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem — 

For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them — ■ 

And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 

Shot  to  the  crimson  curtain-fold, 

Over  the  bended  head  of  him 

Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim; 

And  I  wondered  that,  under  the  morning  ray, 

When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered  away, 

The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 

By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light — 

Should  pore  and  pore,  and  never  seem 

To  notice  the  golden  morning  beam. 

THE  PETRIFIED  FERN 

Anonymous 
In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern  leaf,  green  and  slender, 

Veining  delicate  and  fibers  tender ; 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low. 

Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew  'round  it, 

Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it, 

Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night,  and  crown'd  it, 

But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that  way; 

Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 

Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain; 


542  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Nature  reveled  in  grand  mysteries : 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these, 
Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees; 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet  way, 
None  ever  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth  one  time  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the  mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean, 

Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood, 
Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist  clay, — 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 
Oh,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  dayl 
Oh,  the  agony  1     Oh,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless?    Lost?    There  came  a  thoughtful  man, 
Searching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and  deep; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencilings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibers  clear  and  fine! 
So,  I  think  God  hides  some  souls  away, 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us,  the  last  day. 

SLEEP 

By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Among  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this, — 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep"? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved, — 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, —  ' 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows? 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


SUBLIME  543 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved, — 
A  little  dust  to  over  weep, — 
And  bitter   memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake, 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved!"  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep; 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

O  earth  so  full  of  dreary  noises! 
O  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
O  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap; 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  over  head, 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  child-like  on  His  love  repose 
Who  "giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

LABOR 
By  Frank  Soule 

Despise  not  labor !     God  did  not  despise 

The  handicraft  which  wrought  this  gorgeous  globe, 

That  crowned  its  glories  with  yon  jeweled  skies, 
And  clad  the  earth  in  nature's  queenly  robe. 


544  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

He  dug  the  first  canal — the  river's  bed, 

Built  the  first  fountain  in  the  gushing  spring, 
Wove  the  first  carpet  for  man's  haughty  tread, 

The  warp  and  woof  of  his  first  covering. 
He  made  the  pictures  painters  imitate, 

The  statuary's  first  grand  model  made, 
Taught  human  intellect  to  re-create, 

And  human  ingenuity  its  trade. 
Ere  great  Daguerre  had  harnessed  up  the  sun, 

Apprenticeship  at  his  new  art  to  serve, 
A  greater  artist  greater  things  had  done, 

The  wondrous  pictures  of  the  optic  nerve. 
There  is  no  deed  of  honest  labor  born 

That  is  not  Godlike;  in  the  toiling  limbs 
Howe'er  the  lazy  scoff,  the  brainless  scorn, 

God  labored  first;  toil  likens  us  to  Him. 
Ashamed  of  work!  mechanic,  with  thy  tools, 

The  tree  thy  ax  cut  from  its  native  sod, 
And  turns  to  useful  things— go  tell  to  fools, 

Was  fashioned  in  the  factory  of  God. 
Go  build  your  ships,  go  build  your  lofty  dome, 

Your  granite  temple,  that  through  time  endures, 
Your  humble  cot,  or  that  proud  pile  of  Rome, 

His  arm  has  toiled  there  in  advance  of  yours. 
He  made  the  flowers  your  learned  florists  scan, 

And  crystallized  the  atoms  of  each  gem, 
Ennobled  labor  in  great  nature's  plan, 

And  made  it  virtue's  brightest  diadem. 
Whatever  thing  is  worthy  to  be  had, 

Is  worthy  of  the  toil  by  which  'tis  won, 
Just  as  the  grain  by  which  the  field  is  clad 

Pays  back  the  warming  labor  of  the  sun. 
'Tis  not  profession  that  ennobles  men, 

'Tis  not  the  calling  that  can  e'er  degrade, 
The  trowel  is  as  worthy  as  the  pen, 

The  pen  more  mighty  than  the  hero's  blade. 
The  merchant,  with  his  ledger  and  his  wares, 

The  lawyer  with  his  cases  and  his  books, 
The  toiling  farmer,  with  his  wheat  and  tares, 

The  poet  by  the  shaded  streams  and  nooks, 


SUBLIME  545 

The  man,  whate'er  his  work,  wherever  done, 

If  intellect  and  honor  guide  his  hand, 
Is  peer  to  him  who  greatest  state  has  won, 
And  rich  as  any  Rothschild  of  the  land. 
All  mere  distinctions  based  upon  pretense, 

Are  merely  laughing  themes  for  manly  hearts. 
The  miner's  cradle  claims  from  men  of  sense 

More  honor  than  the  youngling  Bonaparte's. 
Let  fops  and  fools  the  sons  of  toil  deride, 

On  false  pretensions  brainless  dunces  live; 
Let  carpet  heroes  strut  with  parlor  pride, 

Supreme  in  all  that  indolence  can  give, 
But  be  not  like  them,  and  pray  envy  not 

These  fancy  tom-tit  burlesques  of  mankind, 
The  witless  snobs  in  idleness  who  rot, 

Hermaphrodite  'twixt  vanity  and  mind. 
O  son  of  toil,  be  proud,  look  up,  arise, 

And  disregard  opinion's  hollow  test, 
A  false  society's  decrees  despise, 

He  is  most  worthy  who  has  labored  best. 
The  scepter  is  less  royal  than  the  hoe, 

The  sword,  beneath  whose  rule  whole  nations  writhe, 
And  curse  the  wearer,  while  they  fear  the  blow, 

Is  far  less  noble  than  the  plow  and  scythe. 
There's  more  true  honor  on  one  tan-browned  hand, 

Rough  with  the  honest  work  of  busy  men, 
Than  all  the  soft-skinned  punies  of  the  land, 

The  nice,  white-kiddery  of  upper  ten. 
Blow  bright  the  forge — the  sturdy  anvil  ring, 

It  sings  the  anthem  of  king  Labor's  courts, 
And  sweeter  sounds  the  clattering  hammers  bring, 

Than  half  a  thousand  thumped  piano-fortes. 
Fair  are  the  ribbons  from  the  rabbet-plane, 

As  those  which  grace  my  lady's  hat  or  cape, 
Nor  does  the  joiner's  honor  blush  or  wane 

Beside  the  lawyer,  with  his  brief  and  tape. 
Pride  thee,  mechanic,  on  thine  honest  trade, 

'Tis  nobler  than  the  snob's  much  vaunted  pelf. 
Man's  soulless  pride  his  test  of  worth  has  made, 

But  thine  is  based  on  that  of  God  himself. 


546  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE 
By  Edwin  Markham 

When  the  Norn-Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour, 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 

She  bent  the  strenuous  Heavens  and  came  down 

To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 

She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road — 

Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 

Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy ; 

Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 

It  was  a  stuff  to  wear  for  centuries, 

A  man  that  matched  the  mountains,  and  compelled 

The  stars  to  look  our  way  and  honor  us. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth; 

The  tang  and  odor  of  the  primal  things — 

The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  rocks; 

The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn; 

The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea; 

The  justice  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 

The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars ; 

The  loving-kindness  of  the  wayside  well; 

The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 

That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  weed 

As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind — 

To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 

That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

And  so  he  came. 
From  prairie  cabin  up  to  Capitol, 
One  fair  Ideal  led  our  chieftain  on. 
Forevermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed 
With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king. 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow, 
The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 


SUBLIME  547 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  mighty  heart: 
And  when  the  step  of  Earthquake  shook  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  hold, 
He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.    He  held  his  place — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise. 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar  green  with  boughs 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 
— Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

HONEST  POVERTY 
By  Robert  Burns 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

That  hings  his  head,  an*  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by — 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoodin'  gray,  an'  a'  that? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that, 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha'  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that? 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  cuif  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 


548  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that! 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might — 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  an'  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that) 
That  sense  and  worth  o'er  a'  the  earth 

Shall  bear  the  gree  an'  a'  that  1 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  comin*  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man  the  world  o'er 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 
By  Robert  Browning 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  outthrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


SUBLIME  549 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !"     The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  ; 
"You're  wounded!"     "Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"I'm  killed,  sire !"    And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER 
By  Edward  Rowland  Sill 

The  royal  feast  was  done.     The  King 

Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 
And  to  his  jester  cried:     "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  1" 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 
His  pleading  voice  arose :     "O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 


550  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin;  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

"  Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 
We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  are  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  1" 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool!" 

IKE  WALTON'S  PRAYER 
By  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

I  crave,  dear  Lord, 
No  boundless  hoard 
Of  gold  and  gear, 

Nor  jewels  fine, 

No  lands,  nor  kine, 


SUBLIME  551 


Nor  treasure-heaps  of  anything. — 

Let  but  a  little  hut  be  mine 
Where  at  the  hearthstone  I  may  hear 

The  cricket  sing, 

And  have  the  shine 
Of  one  glad  woman's  eyes  to  make, 
For  my  poor  sake, 

Our  simple  home  a  place  divine; — 
Just  the  wee  cot — the  cricket's  chirr — 
Love,  and  the  smiling  face  of  her. 

I  pray  not  for 
Great  riches,  nor 
For  vast  estates,  and  castle-halls, — 
Give  me  to  hear  the  bare  foot-falls 
Of  children  o'er 
An  oaken  floor, 
New-rinsed  with  sunshine,  or  bespread 

With  but  the  tiny  coverlet 
And  pillow  for  the  baby's  head ; 
And  pray  Thou,  may 
The  door  stand  open  and  the  day 
Send  ever  in  a  gentle  breeze, 
With  fragrance  from  the  locust-trees, 

And  drowsy  moan  of  doves,  and  blur 
Of  robin-chirps,  and  drone  of  bees, 

With  after  hushes  of  the  stir 
Of  intermingling  sounds,  and  then 

The  good-wife  and  the  smile  of  her 
Filling  the  silences  again — 
The  cricket's  call, 

And  the  wee  cot, 
Dear  Lord  of  all, 
Deny  me  notl 

I  pray  not  that 
Men  tremble  at 

My  power  of  place, 

And  lordly  sway, — 
I  only  pray  for  simple  grace 
To  look  my  neighbor  in  the  face 

Full  honestly  from  day  to  day — 


552  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Yield  me  his  horny  palm  to  hold, 

And  I'll  not  pray 
For  gold; — 

The  tanned  face,  garlanded  with  mirth, 
It  hath  the  kingliest  smile  on  earth — 

The  swart  brow,  diamonded  with  sweat, 
Hath  never  need  of  coronet. 
And  so  I  reach, 

Dear  Lord,  to  Thee, 
And  do  beseech 

Thou  givest  me 
The  wee  cot,  and  the  cricket's  chirr, 
Love,  and  the  glad  sweet  face  of  her. 


THE  LAST  TATTOO 

(dedicated  to  the  remaining  members  of  the  g.  a.  r.) 

By  John  Milton  Scott 

Blow  soft  and  low,  O  fife,  to-day, 
For  thinner  grow  our  ranks  of  blue; 

The  years  our  priceless  heroes  slay 
Until  the  fewer  grow  more  few 

And  dear  familiar  voices  still 

As  patriot  graves  with  patriots  fill. 

Beat  soft  and  low,  O  drum,  to-day 
As  tho'  you  were  a  trembling  sigh; 

Dear,  paling  lips  their  last  prayer  say 
While  mdre  and  more  dear  comrades  die, 

Their  feet  across  the  dark  door's  sill 

As  patriot  graves  with  patriots  fill. 

Float  gently,  flag,  and  droop  to-day 
As  droop  the  grasses  o'er  the  brook; 

They  few  and  fewer  grow  each  May; 
For  those  we  love  we  vainly  look, 

So  many  sunny  smiles  grow  chill 

As  patriot  graves  with  patriots  fill. 


SUBLIME  553 


O  hush,  exultant  sounds,  to-day! 

For  they  are  gone,  these  ranks  on  ranks 
Who  loved  to  hear  the  shrill  fife  play 

And  with  their  comrades  render  thanks- 
O  Time,  how  many  brave  you  kill 
And  patriot  graves  with  patriots  fill ! 

O,  silken  every  sound  to-day 
And  soften  every  bugle  brave  I 

We  can  not  bid  our  vision  stay 

From  seeing  our  last  comrade's  grave, — 

O  dear,  last-billowed  comrade  hill! 

Lone,  last  of  graves  our  patriots  fill! 

O  angel  choir,  wing  low  that  day 
And  silken  sing  a  Bethlehem  strain 

And  all  your  pipes  of  welcome  play! 
Altho'  their  brothers  they  have  slain, 

In  brother  love  their  hands  grow  white, 

For  what  they  did  they  thought  was  right. 

Not  into  graves,  but  into  skies, 
Where  love  and  life  eternal  are! 

God's  reveille  has  bid  them  rise 
Beyond  earth's  sun  and  morning  star 

Where  all  men  just   love-brothers  be 

As  One  once  said  in  Galilee. 


LYRIC  SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 

L'ENVOI 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

When  Earth's  last  picture  is  painted,  and  the  tubes  are  twisted  and  dry, 
When  the  oldest  colors  have  faded,  and  the  youngest  critic  has  died, 
We  shall  rest,  and,  faith,  we  shall  need  it — lie  down  for  an  aeon  or  two, 
Till  the  Master  of  All  Good  Workmen0  shall  put  us  to  work  anew ! 

And  those  that  were  good  shall  be  happy:  they  shall  sit  in  a  golden 

chair ; 
They  shall  splash  at  a  ten-league  canvas  with  brushes  of  comet's  hair ; 
They  shall  find  real  saints  to  draw  from — Magdalene,  Peter,  and  Paul ; 
They  shall  work  for  an  age  at  a  sitting  and  never  be  tired  at  all ! 

And  only  the  Master  shall  praise  us,  and  only  the  Master  shall  blame; 
And  no  one  shall  work  for  money,  and  no  one  shall  work  for  fame, 
But  each  for  the  joy  of  working,  and  each,  in  his  separate  star, 
Shall  draw  the  thing  as  he  sees  it  for  the  God  of  Things  as  They  Are! 

OUR  FLAG 

By  John  Milton  Scott 

(Written  expressly  for  this  work) 

'Tis  homes  make  a  country  and  children  make  homes 
Where  the  heart  is  held  true  and  the  truth  never  roams. 
Where  joy  is  abounding  and  life  overflows, 
And  love  is  the  rapture  which  every  one  knows, 

554 


LYRIC  555 

Where  the  pride  of  all  hearts  is  the  boy  at  his  play, 

His  eyes  like  the  sun  overshining  the  day, 

His  cheeks  like  the  roses  his  grandmother  grew, 

Shot  through  with  a  dimple  the  size  of  a  dew 

Which  gives  to  his  smile  irresistible  grace 

As  his  sister  looks  down  in  his  uplifted  face; 

In  such  bright-shining  faces  our  true  eyes  may  see 

The  love  which  shall  honor  our  Flag  of  the  Free. 

Whatever  they  say,  however  they  brag, 

'Tis  these  put  the  red  in  our  flag, 

Not  our  patriot  deaths, 

Not  our  gold  nor  our  lands, 

Not  our  fifes  nor  our  drums, 

Not  our  captains'  commands; 

But  the  homes  and  the  children, 

Our  country's  true  worth, 

The  grace  and  the  greatness, 

The  glory  of  earth, — 

The  children,  the  children, 

Light-hearted  and  free 

Who  play  in  the  sunshine 

And  pray  at  our  knee, — 

O  'tis  homes  and  the  children 

Where  joys  never  lag, — 

'Tis  these  keep  the  red  in  our  flag, 

Our  flag  of  the  red,  white  and  blue 

To  which  home-hearts  and  child-hearts  are  true. 

Tis  the  mothers  of  men  who  give  us  our  lives, 

Who  give  us  our  children,  who  give  us  our  wives, — 

O  'tis  woman's  great  heart  which  hallows  and  trues 

And  makes  the  straight  line  to  which  our  ax  hews ; 

*Tis  our  wives  and  our  daughters  who  keep  our  feet  straight 

In  the  paths  where  God's  honor  and  man's  honor  mate; 

Where  woman  is  honored  as  mother  and  wife 

The  war  drum  throbs  never  nor  screams  the  shrill  fife ; 

There  freedom  and  justice  with  honor  and  truth 

Keep  our  nation  alive  in  the  vigor  of  youth, — 

There  smile  the  bright  heavens  which  never  wax  old, 

And  there  a  free  flag  will  forever  unfold. 


556  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Whatever  they  say,  however  they  brag, 

Tis  these  put  the  white  in  our  flag. 

Not  our  patriot  deaths, 

Not  our  gold  nor  our  lands, 

Not  our  fifes  nor  our  drums, 

Not  our  captains'  commands; 

But  the  women,  the  women, 

Our  country's  true  worth, 

The  grace  and  the  greatness, 

The  glory  of  earth, — 

The  women,  the  women 

With  hands  free  to  do 

Will  build  a  great  state 

As  tender,  as  true, — 

O  the  free  hearts  of  women, 

Unchoked  by  hate's  slag, 

'Tis  these  keep  the  white  in  our  flag, 

Our  flag  of  the  red,  white  and  blue 

To  which  our  love-honor  is  true. 

'Tis  city  and  country  where  good  neighbors  live 
And  their  love  and  their  labors  so  joyously  give, 
That  bodies  be  clothed  and  hungers  be  fed, 
That  with  love  in  our  heart  and  truth  in  our  head, 
Great  thoughts  and  great  dreams  together  we  share 
As  we  meet  at  the  market  or  kneel  at  our  prayer; 
When  our  feet  at  one  fireside  make  mellow  our  speech 
As  together  we  plan  our  ideals  to  reach, 
What  visions  together  we  wisely  may  find 
To  make  our  earth  friendlier,  truer,  more  kind, 
That  our  flag  tell  the  beauty  of  man  to  the  world 
Wherever  in  freedom  and  justice  unfurled. 

Whatever  they  say,  however  they  brag, 

'Tis  these  put  the  blue  in  our  flag, — 

Not  our  patriot  deaths, 

Not  our  gold  nor  our  lands, 

Not  our  fifes  nor  our  drums, 

Not  our  captains'  commands; 

But  our  neighbors,  good  neighbors, 


LYRIC  557 

Our  country's  true  worth, 

The  grace  and  the  greatness, 

The  glory  of  earth, — 

Our  neighbors,  good  neighbors, 

Without  hurt  or  hate, 

Whose  love  and  whose  labors 

Have  builded  our  state, — 

O,  'tis  neighbors,  good  neighbors 

Whose  hearts  never  sag, — 

'Tis  these  keep  the  blue  in  our  flag, 

Our  flag  of  the  red,  white  and  blue 

Which  good  neighbors  ever  renew. 

"Where  the  vision  is  not  the  people  will  die," 

Said  the  word  of  truth  sounding  God's  voice  from  the  sky; 

As  trees  draw  their  vigor  from  the  sun-quickened  air, 

That  they  grow  globing  fruits  which  make  the  year  fair, 

So  the  dreams  and  the  visions  of  young  men  and  maids 

Show  heavens  of  glory  through  which  our  flag  wades 

Where  dreams  come  awake  and  visions  fulfill 

In  a  world  that's  so  human  no  hatreds  can  kill, — 

There  the  noble  ideal  forever  leads  on; 

There  are  stars  for  our  nights  and  suns  for  our  dawn, 

The  dreamers  and  lovers  by  God  justified 

In  a  love-world  Christ  visioned  and  for  which  He  died. 

Whatever  they  say,  however  they  brag, 

'Tis  these  put  the  stars  in  our  flag; 

Not  our  patriot  deaths, 

Not  our  gold  nor  our  lands, 

Not  our  fifes  nor  our  drums, 

Not  our  captains'  commands; 

But  our  visions  and  dreams, 

Our  country's  true  worth, 

The  grace  and  the  greatness, 

The  glory  of  earth, — 

The  dreamers,  the  dreamers, 

Love-visioned  by  God, 

Bring  the  stars  to  our  earth, 

To  the  stars  lift  our  sod ; 


558  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Tis  the  visions  and  dreams, 

Scaling  mountain  and  crag, — 

'Tis  these  keep  the  stars  in  our  flag, 

Our  flag  of  the  red,  white  and  blue 

Which  from  dream  hearts  unfolded  and  flew. 

Without  a  free  earth  there's  no  sky  for  our  flag, 

And  vainly  of  rights  and  of  freedom  we  brag; 

There  Tyranny  still  is  exploiting  its  slaves, 

And  we  buy  rights  to  live,  and,  then,  buy  our  graves ; 

Such  flag  of  the  free  our  poverty  mocks 

As  the  ways  of  progression  the  privileged  Greed  blocks ; 

But  free  land  and  free  men  make  our  flag's  holy  sky, 

And  our  winds  never  weary  with  Poverty's  cry. 

Here  man  to  his  fellow  is  never  for  sale, 

And  free  men  to  free  men  give  good  neighbor  hail, 

In  whose  cheery  words  we  ever  shall  hear 

The  flap  of  our  flag  and  our  patriots'  cheer. 

Whatever  they  say,  however  they  brag, 

'Tis  these  make  a  sky  for  our  flag. 

Not  our  patriot  deaths, 

Not  our  gold  nor  our  lands, 

Not  our  fifes  nor  our  drums, 

Not  our  captains'  commands; 

But  free  land  and  free  men, 

Our  country's  true  worth, 

The  grace  and  the  greatness, 

The  glory  of  earth, — 

The  freemen,  the  freemen 

With  brothering  palms 

Who  love  one  another 

And  praise  God  in  psalms, — 

O  'tis  free  land  and  free  men, 

And  no  poverty's  rag, — 

'Tis  these  make  a  sky  for  our  flag, 

Our  flag  of  the  red,  white  and  blue 

To  which  freemen  forever  are  true. 


LYRIC  559 

THANKS  FOR  AMERICA  AND  ITS  FLAG! 
By  John  Milton  Scott 

Dear  God,  whose  Heart  is  Freedom's  home, 

Whose  joy  is  that  Thine  earth  be  free, 
We  thank  Thee  for  our  native  land 

And  for  its  growing  liberty; 
We  praise  Thee  for  its  holy  Flag 

By  precious  blood  so  consecrate, 
A  banner  born  of  patriot  love 

And  weaving  in  its  folds  no  hate. 

Its  glory  shines  anear,  afar 

On  murk  and  midnight  tyranny, 
A  streak  of  Freedom's  ble'ssed  dawn 

Which  tyrant-hating  eyes  do  see, 
And,  taking  heart,  they  braver  toil 

Their  country's  liberties  to  gain, 
Till  some  bright  day  no  land  is  found 

But  sings  great  Freedom's  glad  refrain. 

Our  banner's  red  speaks  patriots'  blood, 

Its  white  a  noble  faithfulness, 
Its  blue  of  truth,  and  all  its  stars 

Are  hopes  for  grander  days  to  bless ; 
For  it,  for  all  who  made  it  great, 

The  living  ones  or  sacred  dead, 
We  thank  Thee  through  our  smiles  and  tears 

Who  love  its  white  and  blue  and  red. 

We'll  take  it  as  their  sacred  trust, 

And,  as  they,  keep  it  true  and  tried, 
To  pass  it  stainless  when  we  die, 

That  all  its  love  and  truth  abide. 
O  may  it  deeper  meanings  gain 

Through  all  the  changing,  growing  years, 
Fulfilling  every  liberty, 

The  rainbow  of  each  captive's  tears. 


560  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  may  it  brother  other  flags, 

Behold  in  each  some  human  worth, 
Till  peace  divine  whites  each  and  all, 

A  fellowship  that  fills  our  earth; 
O  then  no  enemy  is  found 

Upon  the  wide  world's  mother-breast, 
In  every  heart  Christ-gentleness, 

And  every  flag  with  Christ-love  blest. 

THERE  WAS  A  MAN 
By  David  Starr  Jordan 

There  was  a  man  who  saw  God  face  to  face ; 
His  countenance  and  vestments  evermore 
Glowed  with  a  light  that  never  shone  before, 

Saving  from  him  who  saw  God  face  to  face. 

And  men,  anear  him  for  a  little  space, 

Were  sorely  vexed  at  the  unwonted  light. 

Those  whom  the  light  did  blind  rose  angrily; 
They  bore  his  body  to  a  mountain  height 
And  nailed  it  to  a  tree;  then  went  their  way, 
And  he  resisted  not  nor  said  them  nay, 

Because  that  he  had  seen  God  face  to  face. 

There  was  a  man  who  saw  Life  face  to  face ; 

And  ever  as  he  walked  from  day  to  day, 

The  deathless  mystery  of  being  lay 
Plain  as  the  path  he  trod  in  loneliness ; 
And  each  deep-hid  inscription  could  he  trace; 

How  men  have  fought  and  loved  and  fought  again ; 

How  in  lone  darkness  souls  cried  out  for  pain; 
How  each  green  foot  of  sod  from  sea  to  sea 
Was  red  with  blood  of  men  slain  wantonly; 

How  tears  of  pity  warm  as  summer  rain 
Again  and  ever  washed  the  stains  away, 
Leaving  to  Love,  at  last,  the  victory. 

Above  the  strife  and  hate  and  fever  pain, 
The  squalid  talk  and  walk  of  sordid  men, 

He  saw  the  vision  changeless  as  the  stars 

That  shone  through  temple  gates  or  prison  bars, 


LYRIC  561 

Or  to  the  body  nailed  upon  the  tree, 

Through  each  mean  action  of  the  life  that  is, 

The  marvel  of  the  Life  that  yet  shall  be. 

TO  A  MOCKING-BIRD  IN  CALIFORNIA 

By  John  Milton  Scott 

(Written  expressly  for  this  Reader) 

"Gertie!  Gertie!  Gertie!"  "Peter!  Peter!  Peter!" 
In  the  morn  when  wings  are  fleeter, 
In  the  noon  when  skies  are  bright 
You  call  these  names  in  wild  delight. 

Who  is  this  "Gertie,"  who  this  "Peter" 
Who  go  rapturing  through  your  meter? 

Did  you  hear  beneath  your  tree 
These  names  called  in  ecstasy, 
When  your  heart  caught  fire,  and  flames 
In  love — calling  these  dear  names? 

Did  Gertie's  heart  go  twitter,  tweeter 
When  she  heard  the  call  of  Peter? 
Did  Peter's  heart  beat  wild  and  hurty 
When  he  heard  the  call  of  Gertie? 
And  who  this  "Gertie,"  who  this  "Peter" 
Teaching  you  such  silk-toned  meter? 

Mocking-birds  have  thuswise  sang 
Since  Time's  song  of  joy  upsprang, 
And  to  each  your  lyric  brought 
Something  that  his  spirit  sought; 
Some  perfect  which  the  heart  still  dreams, 
Though  Sorrow's  sands  fill  all  the  streams, 
No  waters  in  their  olden  place, 
Nor  in  your  eyes  the  olden  face ; 
Nor  in  your  ears  that  olden  voice ; 
Yet  something  makes  us  still  rejoice 
And  rapture  dreams  with  mating  birds 
As  if  our  hearts  filled  with  their  words. 


562         DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

"Gertie!  Gertie  1  Gertie!"    "Peter!  Peter!  Peter V 
Who  set  the  mock-bird's  throat  to  meter? 

Maybe  Eve  called  Adam  so 

In  dark  days  when  shadowed  woe; 

Thus  called  Adam  in  the  dark 

When  Eve's  heart  in  fear  called  "Hark  1" 

Or  might  it  be  in  Abram's  time 
Love  taught  you  this  sweetheart  rhyme, — 
Some  trembling  tones  in  Haran's  tongue 
Ere  the  world-famed  march  begun? 

Or  when  Ruth  gleaned  th'  alien  corn, 
Maybe,  then,  your  song  was  born, 
'Neath  the  whisp'ring  palms  one  hour 
Where  you  refuged  from  a  shower? 

Or  some  youth  in  David's  band 
Taught  your  throat  in  Israel's  land, — 
Maybe  David's  self,  before 
His  song-heart  the  king-cares  wore, 
When  his  boy-heart  whistled  true 
As  wildly  free  as  now  are  you? 

His  psalm  of  joy  you  often  heard 
Which  now  you  sing  without  his  word? 
With  his  maiden,  were  you  there 
When  his  first  kiss  was  like  a  prayer? 

You  heard  his  son,  the  song-wise  king, 

In  heart-beat,  song-beat  rapturing 

So  fine,  his  songs  are  scriptures  now 
In  which  true  lover  hearts  may  bow, 

Learning  how  to  rapture  speech, 

That  heart  to  heart  through  words  may  reach  ? 

Maybe  Greek,  when  Helen's  charm 
Made  old  Homer's  heroes  arm? 

Or  some  dark-eyed  odalisque 
When  Egyptian  lips  were  kist? 


LYRIC  563 

Or  did  some  Roman  maiden  sigh 
When  Caesar's  soldier  said  Good-by? 

Spake  some  shepherd  on  that  night 
Just  before  the  Christmas  light 

Burst  upon  the  flocks  so  still, 

And  the  winds  with  angels  fill, — 
Spake  some  shepherd  in  a  tryst 
Just  before  he  saw  Babe-Christ? 

Maybe  she,  the  Magdalene, 

Ere  the  ways  of  shame  were  seen, 

Heard  and  said  'neath  purpling  vine 

These  sweet,  holy  words  of  thine? 
Did  she  find,  Christ-cleansed  and  pure, 
Him  whose  words  were  thy  throat's  lure, 

And  did  they  both  together  then 

Tell  the  Christ's  love  for  all  men? 

Or  some  Christian's  true  heart-call 
Ere  the  martyr's  cup  of  gall 

Pressed  the  lips  by  love  caressed 

Which  unto  death  the  Christ  confessed? 

Or  later,  with  the  centuries  gone, 
Your  song,  in  a  Castilian  dawn, 

Raptures  to  a  red,  red  rose, 

And  Columbus  stronger  grows 
For  his  journey  far  away 
Within  his  heart  your  brave,  bright  lay? 

Wept  black  eyes  in  sun-bright  Spain 
When  dared  his  crew  the  unknown  main? 

Those  sorrow-tones  you're  calling  now, 

Your  rippling  wave-sounds  from  his  prow; 
We  almost  hear  the  whistling  sails 
In  your  wild  song  which  never  fails 

Of  courage  which  can  travel  far 

To  bring  a  joy  back  from  a  star, 
Or  bring  the  moon's  remotest  beam 
To  build  in  joy  a  Jacob's  dream 


564  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

O'er  which  the  song-glad  angels  go 
To  bring  the  smiles  of  heaven  below, 
That  hearts  which  pillow  on  hard  stone 
May  have  a  song  for  every  moan. 

Did  they  hear  you  in  that  breeze 

Blowing  o'er  uncharted  seas, 

Remembering,  then,  the  night-eyed  maid 
In  whose  smile  all  fears  were  laid? 

Perhaps  your  lure  was  on  the  wave, 
The  first  call  that  the  New  World  gave, 
As  Fate  urged  him  on  and  on, 
Into  that  splendid  glory  drawn 
Wherein  a  New  World  was  his  gift 
In  which  our  starry  flag  can  lift, 
Proclaiming  all  men  equal,  free, 
A  world  of  brothers, — yet  to  be? 

O  'twere  fine,  if  we  but  knew 

'Twas  your  song  hailed  that  brave  crew,— 
Columbus'  ears  enraptured  by 
Your  song-flights  in  this  new  sky, 
By  your  welcome  to  this  shore 
Which  welcomes  exiles  ever  more, — 

All  song-tongues  your  singings  span, 

You  a  true  American 

With  welcome  for  all  alien  feet 
Who  with  Freedom  here  would  meet. 

Did  doe-eyes  in  joyous  France 
To  such  words  in  rapture  dance, 
Giving  that  charmed  land  its  grace 
Where  each  face,  a  lover's  face, 
Sets  the  heart  to  music's  notes 
As  they  thrill  from  bird-sweet  throats  ? 

Did  Lafayette  from  your  free  wings 
Catch  the  song  which  Freedom  sings; 
As  he  hearkened  to  your  cheer, 
Growing  dearer  and  more  dear, 


LYRIC  565 


Till  upon  our  country's  soil 
He  nobly  wrought  in  battle-toil, 
That  our  flag  might  float  as  free 
As  your  song-flights  in  his  tree? 

But  my  questions  lose  their  way,— 
You  sing  what  tender  lovers  say, — 
Not  of  wars  and  wars'  alarms, 
Yours  the  songs  of  woman's  charms, 
Your  tones  silk-fitting  rosy  lips 
From  which  the  kissing  lyric  slips. 

When  he  limped  along  the  trail 

That  his  wild  men  might  not  fail 
Of  the  sacrament  which  saves 
And  lights  the  shadowed  way  of  graves 

Did  the  halt  monk,  thinking  how 

His  Saint  Francis  on  the  bough 
Gathered  all  the  gracious  birds, 
Preached  to  them  the  gospel's  words, 

Still  his  earnest  heart  to  hear 

Your  lover-calls  sing  out  their  cheer, 
And  for  one  heart-beat  clean  forgot 
The  Christ- fervor  of  his  thought, 

Hearing  words  that  thrilled  his  soul 

Ere  he  wore  the  hallowed  stole, 
Among  red  roses  there  in  Spain 
Where  he'll  never  walk  again? 

But  these  tongues  you  cannot  speak, 

Hebrew,  Latin,  Spanish,  Greek; 
Tis  in  Anglo-Saxon  tongue 
Your  name-calls  are  sweetly  sung. 

If  from  Saxon  land  you  hail, 
Not  the  Mayflower  was  your  sail; 

But  some  daring  Cavalier 

Loved  your  song  and  brought  you  here- 
Fervid,  knightly,  militant, 
Still  his  heart  your  raptures  chant ; 

And  from  his  sorrows  maybe  came 

Your  minors,  wavering  like  flame 


566  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Which  marked  the  ashes  that  remain 
When  wild  men  have  burned  and  slain; 

In  your  tones  the  Southern  tongue, 

Chivalry  forever  young, 
Love  the  only  noble  theme 
When  we're  waking,  when  we  dream? 

But  your  secret  still  allures, 

Whence  came  those  sweetheart  names  of  yours  ? 

You,  the  American  of  birds, 

You  are  singing  English  words ; 

So  where  Shakespeare's  tongue  we  speak 
There  your  secret  we  must  seek. 

But  your  name?  that  tells  it  all; 
Changes  to  your  tongue  befall, 

And  you  can  speak  each  language  new 

Or  sing  the  last  light  wind  that  blew ; 
You  hearken,  and  new  gossipings 
Are  music-scattered  by  your  wings ; 

You  overhear  and  feel  no  shames; 

And  call  out  loud  the  lovers'  names. 

In  some  dear  later  days  you  heard 
This  you  sing  in  true  love's  word. 

I  think  that  in  our  war's  some  year 
Your  throat  was  taught  these  words  so  dear; 
When  Grant's  and  Lee's  were  names  of  dread, 
Where  billowed  fields  with  sweetheart  dead. 

Your  "Peter!    Peter,"  there  you  learned 
As  "Gertie !  Gertie"  to  him  yearned. 
It  was  a  time  when  sorrow  rent 
Full  many  a  heart  of  sweet  content. 

'Twas  beneath  sweet  Southern  pines ; 

They  walked  softly  on  the  spines, 
While  you,  silent,  on  your  nest 
Heard  these  names,  and  all  the  rest 


LYRIC  567 


Which  passioned  from  their  lips  that  time 
You  caught  their  name-calls  in  your  rhyme; 
E'en  that  night  'neath  star-bright  skies 
Your  joy-song  sang  their  sweet  Good-bys. 

You're  an  emigrant,  as  we; 

Other  states  our  birth-states  be, 
And  we  bring  out  memories  here, 
Bright  with  smile,  or  darked  with  tear; 

So  in  California's  sun 

Sings  your  song,  back  there  begun. 

But  do  you  know,  O  song-heart  brave, 
That  Peter's  in  an  unknown  grave, 

Where  the  Rappahannock  flows ; 

No  more  fearing  war's  dread  blows? 
And  not  a  mound  to  mark  the  place 
Where  went  out  his  sweetheart  face; 

And  not  a  bough  where  some  song-mate 

Might  his  hero  deeds  relate, 
And  recall  in  bird-sweet  lay 
How  called  he  Gertie's  name  that  day? 

And  Gertie  grieved  where  the  lagoons 

Sluggish  gulfward  with  their  tunes, 
And  with  breaking  heart  grew  old 
Waiting  for  her  soldier  bold, — 

Dying  lonely,  lonely  past, 

Calling  "Peter"  to  the  last. 

Where  she's  resting  no  one  notes, 

Save  your  song-mates  with  sweet  throats. 

Do  you  know?    Is  that  the  note 

Which  sometimes  saddens  from  your  throat, 
And  makes  my  heart  slow  down  a  throb, 
And  my  words  hush  in  a  sob? 

That's  the  Gertie,  that's  the  Peter 
Who  go  rapturing  through  your  meter  1 


568  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Since  within  your  song  they  live 
Where  skies  such  sunny  brightness  give, 
Maybe  in  the  Sky  of  skies 
Love  calls,  hearing  love's  replies ; 
Through  some  angel-mocking  bird 
All  the  earth-old  sweetness  heard, — 
Gertie!     Peter!  still  as  dear 
As  when  called  their  love-names  here? 

So  our  thoughts,  as  your  fleet  wings 
Above  the  dark  earth  lightly  springs, 

Think  that  skies  of  brightness  say, 

"Love  is  love  for  aye  and  aye !" 
And  this  Gertie  and  this  Peter 
Gentles  love  through  angel-meter, 

Which  the  grace  of  God  outrhymes, 

Calling,  calling  endless  times  I 

When  "Gertie,"  "Peter"  you  so  lift 

As  if  the  very  stars  you'd  sift, 

Down  to  their  souls  to  voice  their  bliss, 
O  mocking-birds,  do  you  know  this? 


A  JOLLY  GOOD  FRIENDSHIP  IS  BETTER  THAN  ALL 

(a  ballade) 
By  Henry  Meade  Bland 

You  may  travel  in  China,  Luzon,  or  Japan; 

Or  lodge  on  the  plains  of  the  Ultimate  West ; 
You  may  lounge  at  your  ease  on  a  rich  divan; 

And  drink  of  red  wine  at  a  king's  behest, 
Then  lie  by  the  hour  in  slumberous  rest, 

And  be  of  deep  joy  a  subservient  thrall, 
Yet  awake  with  a  feel  that  is  clearly  confessed, 

That  a  jolly  good  friendship  is  better  than  all! 

You  may  sail  from  your  home-port  a  half-a-world  span, 

And  touch  the  Sweet  Isle  with  joy  in  your  breast; 
You  may  sing  as  you  sail,  and  shout  as  you  scan 
The  white  airy  foam-flakes  that  ride  the  fair  crest 


LYRIC  569 

Of  orient  wave :  but,  truly  the  test 
Of  laughters  and  pleasures  that  come  at  a  call 

Is  fellowship  rising  in  full  easy  zest — 
A  jolly  good  friendship  is  better  than  all! 

You  may  listen  to  Melba  or  Sembrich  and  plan 

With  a  five-dollar  note  to  corner  the  best 
Of  Caruso's  high-piping;  and  be  in  the  van 

Of  those  who  would  fain  with  great  Patti  be  blest : 
But  you'll  learn  when  you  come  to  the  end  of  your  quest, 

And  find  that  the  sweetest  in  cabin  or  hall, 
No  matter  what  note  or  what  harmony  stressed, 

The  lilt  of  good  friendship  is  better  than  all ! 

ENVOI 

Aye,  rarer  than  any  rare  vintage  e'er  pressed 

For  banqueter  merry  or  bold  bacchanal; 
Aye,  better  than  nectar  e'er  dream  of  or  guessed — 

A  jolly  good  fellowship  is  better  than  all. 

THE  TRAILMAN 

(Lines  written  in  1909  in  honor  of  John  Muir) 

By  Henry  Meade  Bland 

A  spirit  that  pulses  forever  like  the  fiery  heart  of  a  boy ; 
A  forehead  that  lifts  to  the  sunlight  and  is  wreathed  forever  in  joy; 
A  muscle  that  holds  like  the  iron  that  binds  in  the  prisoner  steam ; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory;  Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's 
dream ! 

An  eye  that  catches  the  splendor  as  it  shines  from  mountain  and  sky; 
And  an  ear  that  awakes  to  the  song  of  the  storm  as  it  surges  on  high ; 
A  sense  that  garners  the  beauty  of  sun,  moon,  or  starry  gleam ; 
Lo,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ;  Lo,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream ! 

The  wild,  high  climb  o'er  the  mountain,  the  lodge  by  the  river's  brim ; 
The  glance  at  the  great  cloud-horses,  as  they  plunge  o'er  the  range's 


570  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  juniper's  balm  for  the  nostril,  the  dash  in  the  cool  trout  stream; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory;  Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's 
dream  1 

The  ride  up  the  wild  river-canyon  where  the  wild  oats  grow  breast 

high ; 
The  shout  of  the  quail  on  the  hillside;  the  turtle  dove  flashing  by; 
An  eve  round  the  fragrant  fire,  and  the  tales  of  heroic  theme ; 
Lo,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ;  Lo,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream  I 

THE  HYMN  OF  THE  WIND 

By  Howard  V.  Sutherland 

I  am  the  Wind,  whom  none  can  ever  conquer ; 
I  am  the  Wind,  whom  none  may  ever  bind. 

The  One  who  fashion'd  ye, 

He,  too,  has  fashion'd  me — 
He  gave  to  me  dominion  o'er  the  air. 
Go  where  ye  will,  and  ye  shall  ever  find 

Me  singing,  ever  free, 

Over  land  and  over  sea, 
From  the  fire-belted  Tropics  to  the  Poles. 

I  am  the  Wind.    I  sing  the  glad  Spring's  coming; 
I  bid  the  leaves  burst  forth  and  greet  the  sun. 

I  lure  the  modest  bloom 

From  out  the  soil-sweet  gloom ; 
I  bid  the  wild-bird  leave  the  drowsy  South. 
My  loves  are  violets.     By  my  pure  kisses  won, 

They  spring  from  earth,  and  smile, 

All-innocent,  the  while 
I  woo  them  in  the  aisles  of  pensive  woods. 

I  am  the  Wind.    From  dew-pearl'd  heights  of  wonder 
I  fall  like  music  on  the  listening  wheat. 

My  hands  disturb  its  calm 

Till,  like  a  joyous  psalm, 
Its  swaying  benediction  greets  the  sky. 
I  kiss  the  pines  that  brood  where  seldom  falls 

The  solace  of  the  light, 

And  the  hush'd  voice  of  Night 
Soothes  the  awed  mountains  in  their  somber  dreams. 


LYRIC  571 

I  am  the  Wind.    I  see  enorme  creations 
Starring  the  vault  above  ye,  and  below. 

Where  bide  the  Seraphim 

In  silent  places  dim 
I  pass,  and  tell  your  coming  in  the  end. 
Omniscient  I,  eternal;  and  I  know 

The  gleaming  destiny 

That  waits  ye,  being  free, 
When  ye  have  pass'd  the  border-line  of  Death. 

I  am  the  Wind — the  Lord  God's  faithful  servant; 
'Twixt  earth  and  sky  I  wander,  and  I  know 

His  Sign  is  ever  found 

The  blue-veil'd  earth  around, 
As  on  the  furthest  spheres  that  whirl  in  space, 
All  things  are  His ;  and  all  things  slowly  go 

Through  manifold  degrees 

Of  marvelous  mysteries, 
From  life  to  highest  life,  from  highest  life  to  Him. 

I  am  the  Wind.     I  know  that  all  is  tending 

To  that  bright  end ;  and  ye,  through  years  of  toil 

Shall  reach  at  last  the  height 

Where  Freedom  is,  and  Light; 
And  ye  shall  find  new  paths  that  still  lead  up. 
Be  free  as  I ;  be  patient  and  have  faith ; 

And  when  your  scroll  is  writ 

And  God  shall  pass  on  it, 
Ye  need  not  fear  to  face  Him — He  is  Love. 


DRIFTING 
By  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote: 


572  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague  and  dim 

The  mountains  swim ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff; — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled;— 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 


LYRIC  573 


Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid ; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows;— 

This  happier  one, 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip  1 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  I 


574  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar; 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO 
By  Robert  Burns 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessing  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  together ; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 
We've  had  wi'  ane  anither ; 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go ; 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

RECESSIONAL 
By  Rudyard  KirLiNG 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line, 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget— lest  we  forget  1 


LYRIC  575 


The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart, 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  Sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire; 

Lo!  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  aw( 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds,  without  the  law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  its  trust 
In  reeking  tube,  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust,  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  call  not  Thee  to  guard— 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord  I 


MY  COUNTRY 
By  Robert  Whitaker 

My  country  is  the  world ;  I  count 

No  son  of  man  my  foe, 
Whether  the  warm  life-currents  mount 

And  mantle  brows  like  snow 
Or  red  or  yellow,  brown  or  black, 
The  face  that  into  mine  looks  back. 


576  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

My  native  land  is  Mother  Earth, 

And  all  men  are  my  kin, 
Whether  of  rude  or  gentle  birth, 

However  steeped  in  sin; 
Or  rich,  or  poor,  or  great,  or  small, 
I  count  them  brothers,  one  and  all. 

My  birthplace  is  no  spot  apart, 

I  claim  no  town  nor  State; 
Love  hath  a  shrine  in  every  heart, 

And  wheresoe'er  men  mate 
To  do  the  right  and  say  the  truth, 
Love  evermore  renews  her  youth. 

My  flag  is  the  star-spangled  sky, 

Woven  without  a  seam, 
Where  dawn  and  sunset  colors  lie, 

Fair  as  an  angel's  dream; 
The  flag  that  still,  unstained,  untorn, 
Floats  over  all  of  mortal  born. 

My  party  is  all  human-kind, 

My  platform  brotherhood; 
I  count  all  men  of  honest  mind 

Who  work  for  human  good, 
And  for  the  hope  that  gleams  afar, 
My  comrades  in  this  holy  war. 

My  heroes  are  the  great  and  good 

Of  every  age  and  clime, 
Too  often  mocked,  misunderstood, 

And  murdered  in  their  time; 
But  spite  of  ignorance  and  hate 
Known  and  exalted  soon  or  late. 

My  country  is  the  world;  I  scorn 

No  lesser  love  than  mine, 
But  calmly  wait  that  happy  morn 

When  all  shall  own  this  sign, 
And  love  of  country  as  of  clan, 
Shall  yield  to  world-wide  love  of  man. 


LYRIC  577 

SOMEWHERE  ADOWN  THE  YEARS 

By  Robert  Whitaker 

Somewhere  adown  the  years  there  waits  a  man 
Who  shall  give  wings  to  what  my  soul  has  said: 
Shall  speak  for  me  when   I  am  mute  and  dead; 
And  shall  perfect  the  work  I  but  began. 

What  matter,  therefore,  if  my  word  to-day 
Falls    on   unwilling   ears,   finds    few  to   praise? 
Since  some  mere  child,   in  his  incipient  days, 
That  word  may  win  to  walk  a  prophet's  way? 

And  he,  of  greater  gift,  more   favored   state, 
Shall  speak  to  thousands  where  I  speak  to  one: 
Shall  do  the  work  that  I  would  fain  have  done; 
Helped  to  that   fortune  at  my  lonely  gate. 

Perchance   some   Saul   of  Tarsus,   hating  me, 
And  hating  mine   while   yet   misunderstood, 
Stung  by  my  word  shall  some  day  find  it  good, 
And  bear  it  broadcast  over  land  and  sea. 

Or   some   Saint   Augustine,  of   careless   mien, 
Giving  himself   to   sensuous   pleasures   now, 
Shall    catch    the    glory    from   his    mother's   brow 
That  in  some  word  of  mine  her  soul  hath  seen. 

Nay,  but  I  claim  no  honor  as  my  own 

That   is   not   equally  the   goal    for   all 

Who  run  with  truth,  and  care  not  though  it  fall 

That  they  must  sometimes  run  with  her  alone. 

God  will  not  suffer  any  word  to  fail 
That  is  not  uttered  for  the  hour's  success : 
No  word  that  has  in  it  the  power  to  bless 
Shall  lack  the  means  to  make  it  of  avail. 

Who  speaks  the  people's  weal  shall  some  day  find 
Voices  to  bear  it  to  the  people's  will. 
However  potent  be  the  present  ill 
They  who  assail  it  are  to-morrow's  kind. 


578  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  that  to-morrow  shall  uphold  their  cause 
Who  fell  not  for  the  plaudits  of  to-day: 
Those  who  are  reckoned  rebels  in  their  day 
Are  always  makers  of  to-morrow's  laws. 

Our  present  skeptics  voice  to-morrow's  faith; 
To-day's  disturbers  bring  to-morrow's  peace: 
'Tis  they  who  dare  to  die  who  win  release 
For  all  their  fellows  from  the  fear  of  death. 

SERENADE 
By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

Stars  of  the  summer  night  1 
Far  in  your  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light  1 
She  sleeps! 
My  lady  sleeps  1 
Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light! 
She  sleeps! 
My  lady  sleeps! 
Sleeps ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light! 
She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps! 
Sleeps ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch,  while  in  slumbers  light 
She  sleeps! 
My  lady  sleeps! 
Sleeps ! 


LYRIC  579 

THE  BROOKSIDE 
By  Richard  Monckton  Milnes 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still. 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree: 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 
And,  as  it  grew  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast,  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind : 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, — 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind: 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


580  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG 
By  John  Francis  Waller 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning; 

Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  groaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting, — 

"Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 

"  Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping." 

"Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 

"  Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot's  stirring; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

"What's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window,  I  wonder?" 
"'Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under." 
"What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  in, 
And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  'The  Coolin'?'" 
There's  a  form  at  the  casement, — the  form  of  her  true  love, — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "I'm  waiting  for  you,  love ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly, 
We'll  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon's  shining  brightly." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot's  stirring; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fingers, 

Steals  up  from  her  seat, — longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers ; 

A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother, 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  and  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound ; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps, — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel  swings ; 

Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ringing  and  moving, 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are  roving. 


LYRIC  581 

DOWN  THE  LANE 

By  Clinton  Scollard 

Down  the  lane,  as  I  went  humming,  humming, 
Who  should  I  see  coming 

But  May  Marjory! 
"What  was  that  I  heard  you  humming,  humming, 
As  3'ou  saw  me  coming? 

Prithee,  tell !"  said  she. 

"Oh,"  I  smiled,  "I  was  just  humming,  humming, 
As  I  saw  you  coming 

Where  boughs  met  above, — 
And  the  crickets  kept  on  thrumming,  thrumming, 
As  I  saw  you  coming, — 

Something  about  love !" 
Ah,  her  blush  it  was  becoming — coming, 
As  I  kept  on  humming 

While  we  walked  along, 
And  the  crickets  still  were  strumming,  strumming, 
As  I  kept  on  humming 

That  low  strain  of  song. 

Drooped  her  eyes  as  I  continued  humming; 
Ah,  'twas  so  becoming 

To  May  Marjory! 
Then  she  raised  them,  and  my  heart  went  thrumming, 
Though  I  kept  on  humming; 

"You're  a  dear !"  said  she. 

— From  Judge. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  MIST 

By  Hesper  Le  Gallienne 

I  am  the  mist  and  the  lover  of  mountains, 

I,  like  a  scarf,  waft  and  wave  in  the  breeze; 
I  am  the  sister  of  streams  and  of  fountains, 
Born  'neath  the  roots  of  the  flowers  and  the  trees. 
Wayward  and  free 
Listen  to  me — 
I  am  the  Now  and  the  Never-to-Be! 


582  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Slowly  I  rise  in  the  cool  of  the  gloaming, 

Softly  I  creep  through  the  grass  and  the  leaves, 
Over  the  river,  on  past  the  men  homing, 
Men  living  lives  midst  the  fruit  and  the  sheaves, 
Airy  and  light, 
Filmy  and  white, 
I  come  when  Daytime  is  kissing  the  Night. 

I  am  the  Question,  so  luring,  so  cunning, 

Yet,  when  you  answer,  the  Answer  is — none  1 
For,  when  you  watch  me  skipping  and  running 
Yet,  when  you  catch  me,  you  find  I  am — gone  1 
Catch  if  you  can! 
Never  there  ran 
Any  so  fast,  be  they  maiden  or  man. 

THE  LOOM  OF  LIFE 

Anonymous 

All  day,  all  night,  I  can  hear  the  jar 

Of  the  loom  of  life;  and  near  and  far 

It  thrills  with  its  deep  and  muffled  sound, 

As  the  tireless  wheels  go  always  round. 

Busily,  ceaselessly  goes  the  loom 

In  the  light  of  day  and  the  midnight's  gloom. 

The  wheels  are  turning  early  and  late, 

And  the  woof  is  wound  in  the  warp  of  fate. 

Click !  Clack !  there's  a  thread  of  love  wove  in  1 

Click  1  Clack!  and  another  of  wrong  and  sin! 

What  a  checkered  thing  this  life  will  be, 

When  we  see  it  unrolled  in  eternity! 

Time,  with  a  face  like  a  mystery, 

And  hands  as  busy  as  hands  can  be, 

Sits  at  the  loom  with  its  warp  outspread, 

To  catch  in  its  meshes  each  glancing  thread. 

When  shall  this  wonderful  web  be  done? 

In  a  thousand  years,  perhaps,  or  one, 

Or  to-morrow,  who  knoweth?     Not  you  nor  I, 

But  the  wheels  turn  on,  and  the  shuttles  fly. 


LYRIC  583 

Ah,  sad-eyed  weaver,  the  years  are  slow, 
But  each  one  is  nearer  the  end,  I  know. 
And  some  day  the  last  thread  shall  be  wove  in, 
God  grant  it  be  love  instead  of  sin. 
Are  we  spinners  of  woof  for  this  life  web,  say? 
Do  we  furnish  the  weavers  a  thread  each  day? 
It  were  better  then,  O  my  friend,  to  spin 
A  beautiful  thread,  than  a  thread  of  sin. 

THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

You  sail  and  you  seek  for  the  Fortunate  Isles, 
The  old  Greek  Isles  of  the  yellow  bird's  song? 

Then  steer  straight  on  through  the  watery  miles, 
Straight  on,  straight  on  and  you  can't  go  wrong. 

Nay  not  to  the  left,  nay  not  to  the  right, 

But  on,  straight  on,  and  the  Isles  are  in  sight, 
The  Fortunate  Isles  where  the  yellow  birds  sing 
And  life  lies  girt  with  a  golden  ring. 

These  Fortunate  Isles  they  are  not  so  far, 
They  lie  within  reach  of  the  lowliest  door; 

You  can  see  them  gleam  by  the  twilight  star ; 
You  can  hear  them  sing  by  the  moon's  white  shore — 

Nay,  never  look  back!     Those  leveled  grave  stones 

They  were  landing  steps;  they  were  steps  unto  thrones 
Of  glory  for  souls  that  have  sailed  before, 
And  have  set  white  feet  on  the  fortunate  shore. 

And  what  are  the  names  of  the  Fortunate  Isles? 
Why,  Duty  and  Love  and  a  large  Content. 

Lo !  these  are  the  Isles  of  the  watery  miles, 
That  God  let  down  from  the  firmament. 

Lo !     Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  true  man's  Trust ; 

Your  forehead  to  God  though  your  feet  in  the  dust; 
Lo !     Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  sweet  Babe's  Smiles, 
And  these,  O  friend,  are  the  Fortunate  Isles. 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


584  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

YOSEMITE 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

Sound!  sound  I  sound! 
O  colossal  walls  and  crowrr'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder ! 
Sound !  sound !  sound ! 
O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced ! 

Fret!  fret!  fret! 
Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow ! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 
From  the  white  Sierra's  verge, 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 
Surge !  surge !  surge ! 
Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasseled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweepl  sweep!  sweep! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus ! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  us ; 
We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 


LYRIC  585 

Beat !  beat !  beat ! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and  ...  we  go. 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

THE  DEAD  MILLIONAIRE 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 

Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones. 
The  gold  was  red  with  dead  man's  blood, 

The  silver  black  with  groans ; 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud, 
"There'll  be  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

PETER  COOPER 

(Died  1883) 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

Give  honor  and  love  forevermore 

To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest; 
Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 

Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 


586  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 

That  ever  drew  sword  in  war; 
I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khan, 

Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 

Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray; 
For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead  hand 

Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So  whether  to  wander  the  stars  or  to  rest 

Forever  hushed  and  dumb, 
He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best — 

Give  him  the  best  to  come. 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DOVE 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

Come,  listen,  O  Love,  to  the  voice  of  the  dove, 

Come,  hearken  and  hear  him  say : 
"There  are  many  To-morrows,  my  Love,  my  Love, 

There  is  only  one  To-day." 

And  all  day  long  you  can  hear  him  say 

This  day  in  purple  is  rolled 
And  the  baby  stars  of  the  milky-way 

They  are  cradled  in  cradles  of  gold. 

Now  what  is  thy  secret  serene,  gray  dove, 

Of  singing  so  sweetly  alway? 
"There  are  many  To-morrows,  my  Love,  my  Love, 

There  is  only  one  To-day." 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


LYRIC  587 

WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

By  Arthur  Chapman 

Out  where  the  handclasp's  a  little  stronger, 
Out  where  a  smile  dwells  a  little  longer, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Out  where  the  sun's  a  little  brighter, 
Where  the  snow  that  falls  is  a  trifle  whiter, 
Where  the  bonds  of  home  are  a  wee  bit  tighter, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  skies  are  a  trifle  bluer, 
Out  where  friendship's  a  little  truer, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Out  where  a  fresher  breeze  is  blowing, 
Where  there  is  laughter  in  each  streamlet  flowing, 
Where  there's  more  of  reaping  and  less  of  sowing, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  world  is  in  the  making, 
Where  fewer  hearts  with  despair  are  aching, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Where  there  is  more  of  singing  and  less  of  sighing, 
Where  there  is  more  of  giving  and  less  of  buying, 
And  a  man  makes  friends  without  half  trying — 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

AS  I  CAME  DOWN  FROM  LEBANON 

By  Clinton  Scollard 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 

Came  winding,  wandering  slowly  down 

Through  mountain  passes  bleak  and  brown, 

The  cloudless  day  was  well  nigh  done. 

The  city  like  an  opal  set 

In  emerald,  showed  each  minaret 

Afire  with  radiant  beams  of  sun, 

And  glistened  orange,  fig,  and  lime, 

Where  song-birds  made  melodious  chime, 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 


588  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
Like  lava  in  the  dying  glow, 
Through  olive  orchards  far  below 
I  saw  the  murmuring  river  run; 
And  'neath  the  wall  upon  the  sand 
Swart  sheiks  from  distant  Samarcand, 
With  precious  spices  they  had  won, 
Lay  long  and  languidly  in  wait 
Till  they  might  pass  the  guarded  gate, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
I  saw  strange  men  from  lands  afar, 
In  mosque  and  square  and  gay  bazar, 
The  magi  that  the  Moslem  shun, 
And  grave  effendi  from  Stamboul, 
Who  sherbet  sipped  in  corners  cool; 
And,  from  the  balconies  o'errun 
With  roses,  gleamed  the  eyes  of  those 
Who  dwell  in  still  seraglios, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

-  As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
The  flaming  flower  of  daytime  died, 
And  Night,  arrayed  as  is  a  bride 
Of  some  great  king,  in  garment  spun 
Of  purple  and  the  finest  gold, 
Outbloomed  in  glories  manifold, 
Until  the  moon,  above  the  dun 
And  darkening  desert,  void  of  shade, 
Shone  like  a  keen  Damascus  blade, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS 

By  William  Wesley  Martin 

Have  you  seen  an  apple  orchard  in  the  spring?  in  the  spring? 
An  English  apple  orchard  in  the  spring? 


LYRIC  589 

When  the  spreading  trees  are  hoary 
With  their  wealth  of  promised  glory, 
And  the  mavis  pipes  his  story 
In  the  spring? 

Have  you  plucked  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring?  in  the  spring? 
And  caught  their  subtle  odors  in  the  spring? 

Pink  buds  bursting  at  the  light, 

Crumpled  petals  baby-white, 

Just  to  touch  them  a  delight! 
In  the  spring! 

Have  you  walked  beneath  the  blossoms  in  the  spring?  in  the  spring? 
Beneath  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring? 

When  the  pink  cascades  were  falling, 

And  the  silver  brooklets  brawling, 

And  the  cuckoo-bird  is  calling 
In  the  spring? 

Have  you  seen  a  merry  bridal  in  the  spring?  in  the  spring? 
In  an  English  apple  country  in  the  spring? 

When  the  brides  and  maidens  wear 

Apple  blossoms  in  their  hair : 

Apple  blossoms  everywhere, 
In  the  spring! 

If  you  have  not,  then  you  know  not,  in  the  spring,  in  the  spring, 
Half  the  color,  beauty,  wonder  of  the  spring. 

No  sight  can  I  remember, 

Half  so  precious,  half  so  tender, 

As  the  apple  blossoms  render 
In  the  spring! 

A  MATCH 
By  A.  C.  Swinburne 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 

Green  pastures  or  gray  grief ; 


590  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  you  were  queen  of  Pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  Pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  Love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying- feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  Pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  Pain. 

THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE 
By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  goldl 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow 

Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 
And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

That  turbulent  bitter  heart ! 

INDIRECTION 
By  Richard  Realf 

Fair  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle  suggestion  is 

fairer ; 
Rare  is  the  roseburst  of  dawn,  but  the  secret  that  clasps  it  is  rarer ; 
Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  precedes  it  is  sweeter ; 
And  never  was  poem  yet  writ,  but  the  meaning  out-mastered  the  meter 


LYRIC  591 

Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth  the  growing; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  scepters  the  flowing; 
Never  a  Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a  stronger  than  he  did  enfold  him, 
Nor  ever  a  prophet  foretells,  but  a  mightier  seer  hath  foretold  him. 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs  the  painter  is  hinted  and  hidden; 
Into  the  statue  that  breathes  the  soul  of  the  sculptor  is  bidden; 
Under  the  joy  that  is  felt  lie  the  infinite  issues  of  feeling; 
Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  glory  that  crowns  the  revealing. 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is  symboled  is  greater; 
Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward  creator; 
Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift  stands  the  giving; 
Back  of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive  nerves  of  receiving. 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the  doing; 

The  heart  of  the  wooer  is  warm,  but  warmer  the  heart  of  the  wooing; 

And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up  from  the  heights  where 

those  shine, 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the  essence  of  life  is 

divine. 
— Copyright  by  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

LIFE  AND  LOVE 

By  Richard  Realf 

There  is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love 
Wherever  we  linger,  wherever  we  rove, 
There  are  thousands  of  sad  ones  to  cheer  and  sustain 
Till  hopes  that  were  hidden  beam  o'er  them  again. 

There  is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love, 
For  the  spirit  of  Man  is  like  garden  or  grove, 
It  will  yield  a  sweet  fragrance,  but  still  you  must  toil, 
And  cherish  the  blossoms,  and  culture  the  soil. 

There  is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love, 
'Tis  a  truth  which  the  misanthrope  ne'er  can  disprove, 
For  tho'  thorns  and  thistles  may  choke  up  the  flower, 
Some  beauty  will  grace  the  most  desolate  bower. 


592  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Then  think  on,  brother,  wherever  thou  art, 
Let  the  life  be  for  men  and  the  love  for  the  heart, 
For  know  that  the  pathway  which  leads  us  above 
Is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love. 

— Copyright  by  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

SONG  OF  SPRING 
By  Richard  Realf 

My  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  the  Spring 

With  the  step  of  a  bounding  roe, 
For  it  seems  like  the  touch  of  a  seraph's  wing 

When  the  pleasant  south  winds  blow. 

O,  I  love  the  loveliness  that  lies 

In  the  smiling  heart  of  May, 
The  beauty  throbbing  in  violet  eyes, 

The  breath  of  the  fragrant  hay. 

There's  a  great  calm  joy  in  the  song  of  birds, 

And  in  the  voice  of  the  streams, 
In  the  lowly  peace  of  flocks  and  herds, 

And  our  own  soul's  quiet  dreams. 

So  my  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  the  Spring 

As  a  lover  to  his  bride; 
And  over  us  both  there  broods  the  wing 

Of  the  angel  at  her  side. 

—Copyright  by  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

SONG  OF  THE  SEAMSTRESS 
By  Richard  Realf 

It  is  twelve  o'clock  by  the  city's  chime, 

And  my  task  is  not  yet  done ; 
Through  two  more  weary  hours  of  time 

Must  my  heavy  eyes  ache  on. 


LYRIC  593 

I  may  not  suffer  my  tears  to  come, 

And  I  dare  not  stop  to  feel; 
For  each  idle  moment  steals  a  crumb 

From  my  sad  to-morrow's  meal. 

It  is  very  cold  in  this  cheerless  room, 

And  my  limbs  are  strangely  chill ; 
My  pulses  beat  with  a  sense  of  doom, 

And  my  very  heart  seems  still ; 
But  I  shall  not  care  for  this  so  much, 

If  my  fingers  hold  their  power, 
And  the  hand  of  sleep  forbears  to  touch 

My  eyes  for  another  hour. 

I  wish  I  could  earn  a  little  more, 

And  live  in  another  street, 
Where  I  need  not  tremble  to  pass  the  door, 

And  shudder  at  all  I  meet. 
'Tis  a  fearful  thing  that  a  friendless  girl 

Forever  alone  should  dwell 
In  the  midst  of  scenes  enough  to  hurl 

A  universe  to  hell. 

God  knows  that  I  do  not  wish  to  sink 

In  the  pit  that  yawns  around ; 
But  I  cannot  stand  on  its  very  brink, 

As  I  could  on  purer  ground; 
I  do  not  think  that  my  strength  is  gone, 

Nor  fear  for  my  shortening  breath; 
But  the  terrible  winter  is  coming  on, 

And  I  must  not  starve  to  death. 

I  wish  I  had  died  with  sister  Rose, 

Ere  hunger  and  I  were  mates ; 
Ere  I  felt  the  grip  of  the  thought  that  grows 

The  hotter  the  more  it  waits. 
I  am  sure  that  He  whom  they  curse  to  me, 

The  Father  of  all  our  race, 
Did  not  mean  the  world  He  made  to  be 

Such  a  dark  and  dreary  place. 


594  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  would  not  mind  if  they'd  only  give 

A  little  less  meager  pay, 
And  spare  me  a  moment's  time  to  grieve, 

With  a  little  while  to  pray. 
But  until  these  far-off  blessings  come, 

I  may  neither  weep  nor  kneel; 
For,  alas !  'twould  cost  me  a  precious  crumb 

Of  my  sad  to-morrow's  meal. 

— Copyright  by  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission. 

SONG  OF  THE  INDIAN  MOTHER 

By  James  Gowdy  Clark 

Gently  dream,  my  darling  child, 
Sleeping  in  the  lonely  wild ; 

Would  thy  dreams  might  never  know 

Clouds  that  darken  mine  with  woe; 
Oh !  to  smile  as  thou  art  smiling, 
All  my  hopeless  hours  beguiling 

With  the  hope  that  thou  mightst  see 

Blessings  that  are  hid  from  me. 

CHORUS 

Lullaby,  my  gentle  boy, 

Sleeping  in  the  wilderness, 
Dreaming  in  thy  childish  joy 

Of  a  mother's  fond  caress,—? 
Lullaby,  lullaby. 

Sleep,  while  gleams  the  council  fire, 
Kindled  by  thy  hunted  sire : 

Guarded  by  thy  God  above, 

Sleep  and  dream  of  peace  and  love: 
Dream  not  of  the  band  that  perished 
From  the  sacred  soil  they  cherished, 

Nor  the  ruthless  race  that  roams 

O'er  our  ancient  shrines  and  homes. 


LYRIC  595 

Sleep,  "while  autumn  glories  fly, 
'Neath  the  melancholy  sky, 

From  the  trees  before  the  storm, 

Chased  by  winter's  tyrant  form : 
Oh!  'tis  thus  our  warriors,  wasted, 
From  their  altars  torn  and  blasted, 

Followed  by  the  storm  of  death, 

Fly  before  Oppression's  breath. 

Sleep,  while  night  hides  home  and  grave, 
Rest,  while  mourn  the  suffering  brave, 

Mourning  as  thou,  too,  wilt  mourn, 

Through  the  future,  wild  and  worn ; 
Bruised  in  heart,  in  spirit  shaken, 
Scourged  by  man,  by  God  forsaken, 

Wandering  on  in  war  and  strife, 

Living  still,  yet  cursing  life. 

Could  thy  tender  fancy  feel 
All  that  manhood  will  reveal, 

Couldst  thou  dream  thy  breast  would  share 

All  the  ills  thy  fathers  bear, 
Thou  wouldst  weep  as  I  am  weeping,  , 

Tearful  watches  wildly  keeping, 

By  the  silver-beaming  light 

Of  the  long  and  lonely  night 
(Repeat  Chorus) 

OLD  TIMES 
By  Gerald  Griffin 

Old  times  1  old  times !  the  gay  old  times ! 

When  I  was  young  and  free, 
And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes 

Under  the  sally  tree. 
My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed, 

My  cross  upon  my  hand; 
A  heart  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  sunshine  on  the  land ! 

Old  times!  old  times! 


596  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale ; 
I  mourn  whene'er  I  think  of  thee, 

My  darling  native  vale ! 
A  wiser  head  I  have,  I  know, 

Than  when  I  loitered  there; 
But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge  care. 

Old  times!  old  times! 

I've  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain; 
To  learn  that  friendship's  self  can  cloy, 

To  love  and  love  in  vain; 
To  feel  a  pang  and  wear  a  smile, 

To  tire  of  other  climes; 
To  love  my  own  unhappy  Isle, 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times ! 

Old  times!  old  times! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed; 

The  birds  are  singing  still, 
The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 

There's  sunshine  on  the  hill. 
The  sally  waving  o'er  my  head 

Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame; 
But  oh !  those  happy  days  are  fled, 

And  I  am  not  the  same. 

Old  times!  old  times! 

Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times ! 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh  and  calm ; 
And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes, 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 
If  I  could  cry  away  mine  eyes, 

My  tears  would  flow  in  vain; 
If  I  could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 

They'll  never  come  again! 

Old  times!  old  times! 


LYRIC  597 

TWILIGHT  FANCIES 
By  Eliza  A.  Pittsinger 

Softly  flit  the  fairy  fancies 

Through  the  sunlight  of  my  brain, 

Weaving  webs  of  weird  romances 

In  a  laughing,  joyous  strain — 

Gently  creeping, 

Gaily  leaping, 

Twilight  revels  strangely  keeping 

In  my  brain. 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

"While  my  soul  is  wrapt  in  thought, 
Wait  they  not  to  be  invited, 
Quite  unwelcome  and  unsought — 
Never  sitting, 
Ever  flitting, 
All  the  earnestness  outwitting 
Of  my  thought. 

Thus  to  have  my  being  haunted 

By  these  fairies,  all  astray, 
By  these  elfin-sprites  enchanted, 
Is  a  spell  upon  my  way, 

That  shall  borrow 
For  the  morrow, 
All  the  pleasure  and  the  sorrow 
Of  to-day. 

In  my  hours  of  quiet  musing, 

By  these  phantoms  thus  caressed, 
I  have  lost  the  right  of  choosing 
As  I  ought,  my  favored  guest — 
Uninvited, 
Often  slighted, 
Come  they  when  the  lamps  are  lighted 
For  a  guest. 


598  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Thus  they  come,  the  fairy  fancies, 

Laughing,  flitting  through  my  brain, 
Weaving  webs  of  weird  romances, 
In  a  wayward,  joyous  strain — 
Gaily  creeping, 
Madly  leaping, 
Even  now  their  revels  keeping 
In  my  brain. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLUME1 
By  Anna  M.  Fitch 

Awake,  awake!  for  my  track  is  red, 

With  the  glow  of  the  coming  day; 
And  with  tinkling  tread,  from  my  dusky  bed, 

I  haste  o'er  hill  away, 
Up  from  the  valley,  up  from  the  plain, 

Up  from  the  river's  side; 
For  I  come  with  a  gush,  and  a  torrent's  rush, 

And  there's  wealth  in  my  swelling  tide. 

I  am  fed  by  the  melting  rills  that  start 

Where  the  sparkling  snow-peaks  gleam, 
My  voice  is  free,  and  with  fiercest  glee 

I  leap  in  the  sun's  broad  beam ; 
Tho'  torn  from  the  channels  deep  and  old, 

I  have  worn  through  the  craggy  hill, 
Yet  I  flow  in  pride,  as  my  waters  glide, 

And  there's  mirth  in  my  music  still. 

I  sought  the  shore  of  the  sounding  sea, 

From  the  far  Sierra's  height, 
With  a  starry  breast,  and  a  snow-capped  crest 

I  foamed  in  a  path  of  light; 

1  In  the  "days  of  old,  the  days  of  .gold,  and  the  days  of  '49,"  water  was  brought 
from  the  Sierran  heights  in  wooden  viaducts,  or  "flumes,"  to  be  used  in  the  mines. 
The  fifth  stanza  refers  to  the  process  of  hydraulic  mining,  where  the  water,  pro- 
jected through  huge  nozzles  (somewhat  after  the  fashion  used  by  fire-engines), 
washed  down  the  mountain-sides  into  the  sluice-boxes  where  the  dirt  was  washed 
away  and  the  gold  retained.  Now  the  flume's  waters  are  mainly  diverted  to  pur- 
poses of  irrigation. 


LYRIC  599 

But  they  bore  me  thence  in  a  winding  way, 

They've  fettered  me  like  a  slave, 
And  as  scarfs  of  old  were  exchanged  for  gold, 

So  they  barter  my  soil-stained  wave. 

Thro'  the  deep  tunnel,  down  the  dark  shaft, 

I  search  for  the  shining  ore; 
Hoist  it  away  to  the  light  of  day, 

Which  it  never  has  seen  before. 
Spade  and  shovel,  mattock  and  pick, 

Ply  them  with  eager  haste ; 
For  my  golden  shower  is  sold  by  the  hour, 

And  the  drops  are  too  dear  to  waste. 

Lift  me  aloft  to  the  mountain's  brow, 

Fathom  the  deep  "blue  vein," 
And  I'll  sift  the  soil  for  the  shining  spoil, 

As  I  sink  to  the  valley  again. 
The  swell  of  my  swarthy  breast  shall  bear 

Pebble  and  rock  away, 
Though  they  brave  my  strength,  they  shall 
yield  at  length, 

But  the  glittering  gold  shall  stay. 

Mine  is  no  stern  and  warrior  march, 

No  stormy  trump  and  drum ; 
No  banners  gleam  in  my  darkened  stream, 

As  with  conquering  step  I  come; 
But  I  touch  the  tributary  earth 

Till  it  owns  a  monarch's  sway, 
And  with  eager  hand,  from  a  conquered  land, 

I  bear  its  wealth  away. 

Awake,  awake  I   there  are  loving  hearts 

In  the  lands  you've  left  afar; 
There  are  tearful  eyes  in  the  homes  you  prize 

As  they  gaze  on  the  western  star ; 
Then  up  from  the  valley,  up  from  the  hill, 

Up  from  the  river's  side; 
For  I  come  with  a  gush,  and  a  torrent's  rush, 

And  there's  wealth  in  my  swelling  tide. 


600  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  WEST 
By  Annie  Elizabeth  Cheney 

Wings  that  are  glancing,  wings  of  my  soul, 
That  speeding  like  arrows  fly  to  their  goal ; 
Wings  that  have  cut  the  keen  ethers  above, 
O  carry  me  on  to  the  West  of  my  love  1 

The  West  it  is  magic,  perspective  and  fire, 
Its  peaks  are  like  daggers  thrust  up  by  desire; 
It  is  Tyre,  it  is  Sidon  and  Ophir  in  one, 
This  land  by  the  waters,  this  land  of  the  sun. 

—From  "Dreams  of  Hellas." 

THE  MOON-CRADLE 
B  /  Kate  Wisner  M'Cluskey 

The  little,  the  yellow  moon-cradle 

Is  swaying,  is  swinging  slow ; 

And  the  tiny  white  star-tapers  burning 

Have  flickered  their  lights  down  low ; 

The  night  has  the  cloud-curtains  ready, 

She  is  holding  them  draped  on  her  breast, 

For  the  dear  little,  queer  little  babe  in  the  moon 

Will  have  sunk  to  rest  in  the  west. 

Hush,  baby,  hushl 

Mother's  heart  aches  for  the  joy  that  she  takes 

In  holding  you  close  to  her  breast  1 

Perhaps  in  the  yellow  moon-cradle 

A  little  cold  baby  may  be ; 

And  the  tiny  white  star-tapers  burning 

May  be  sad  for  some  mother  to  see; — 

O  night-angel!  drop  the  cloud-curtain 

While  the  gleaming  bed's  caught  in  that  tree, 

For  not  even  to  the  rest  in  the  beautiful  west 

Will  I  let  my  babe  go  from  me  I 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  sweet ! 

Are  you  warm,  little  feet? 

Close  to  my  heart  you  will  be ! 


LYRIC  601 

GREEN  THINGS  GROWING 

By  Dinah  Maria  Mulock 

Oh,  the  green  things  growing,  the  green  things  growing, 

The  faint  sweet  smell  of  the  green  things  growing! 

I  should  like  to  live,  whether  I  smile  or  grieve, 

Just  to  watch  the  happy  life  of  my  green  things  growing. 

Oh,  the  fluttering  and  the  pattering  of  those  green  things  growing. 

How  they  talk  each  to  each,  when  none  of  us  are  knowing 

In  the  wonderful  white  of  the  weird  moonlight 

Or  the  dim,  dreary  dawn  when  the  cocks  are  crowing. 

I  love,  I  love  them  so, — my  green  things  growing; 
And  I  think  that  they  love  me,  without  false  showing; 
For  by  many  a  tender  touch,  they  comfort  me  so  much, 
With  the  soft,  mute  comfort  of  green  things  growing. 

DAFFODILS 
By  William  Wordsworth 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 


602  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

MAMMY'S  LULLABY 
By  Strickland  W.  Gilli-lan 

Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Sunset  still  a-shinin'  in  de  wes'; 
Sky  am  full  o'  windehs  an'  de  stahs  am  peepin'  f roo — 
Eb'ryt'ing  but  mammy's  lamb  at  res'. 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas'lan', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Souf — 
See  dat  dove  a-comin'  wif  a  olive  in  'is  mouf  1 
Angel  hahps  a-hummin', 
Angel  banjos  strummin' — 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Cricket  fiddleh  scrapin'  off  de  rozzum  f'um  'is  bow, 

Whippo'will  a-mo'nin'  on  a  lawg; 
Moon  ez  pale  ez  hit  kin  be  a-risin'  mighty  slow — 
Stahtled  at  de  bahkin'  ob  de  dawg; 
Swing  de  baby  Eas'way, 
Swing  de  baby  Wes', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Souflan'  whah  de  melon  grow  de  bes'  1 
Angel  singers  singin', 
Angel  bells  a-ringin', 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Eyelids  des  a-droopin'  li'l  loweh  all  de  w'ile, 

Undeh  lip  a-saggin'  des  a  mite; 
Li'l  baby  toofies  showin'  so't  o'  lak  a  smile, 

Whiteh  dan  de  snow,  or  des  ez  white. 


LYRIC  603 

Swing  'im  to'ds  de  No'flan', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas' — 
Woolly  cloud  a-comin'  fo'  t'  wrap  'im  in  'is  fleece! 
Angel  ban'  a-playin' — 
Whut  dat  music  sayin'? 
'Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo?" 

SONG  OF  THE  BROOK 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern: 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  the  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Phillip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 


604  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  wind  about  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

I  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeams  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

MEADOW-LARKS 
By  Ina  Coolbrith 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  happy  that  I  am! 

(Listen  to  the  meadow-larks,  across  the  fields  that  singl) 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  subtle  breath  of  balm, 

O  winds  that  blow,  O  buds  that  grow,  O  rapture  of  the  spring! 


LYRIC  605 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  skies,  serene  and  blue, 

That  shut  the  velvet  pastures  in,  that  fold  the  mountain's  crest ! 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     What  of  the  clouds  ye  knew? 

The  vessels  ride  a  golden  tide,  upon  a  sea  at  rest. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     Who  prates  of  care  and  pain? 

Who  says  that  life  is  sorrowful?     O  life  so  glad,  so  fleet! 
Ah!  he  who  lives  the  noblest  life  finds  life  the  noblest  gain, 

The  tears  of  pain  a  tender  rain  to  make  its  waters  sweet. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  happy  world  that  is! 

Dear  heart,  I  hear  across  the  fields  my  mateling  pipe  and  call. 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !     O  world  so  full  of  bliss, — 
For  life  is  love,  the  world  is  love,  and  love  is  over  all ! 
—Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

OWNERSHIP 
By  Ina  Coolbrith 

In  a  garden  that  I  know, 
Only  palest  blossoms  blow. 

There  the  lily,  purest  nun, 

Hides  her  white  face  from  the  sun, 

And  the  maiden  rose-bud  stirs 
In  a  garment  fair  as  hers. 

One  shy  bird,  with  folded  wings 
Sits  within  the  leaves  and  sings: 

Sits  and  sings  the  daylight  long, 
Just  a  patient,  plaintive  song. 

Other  gardens  greet  the  spring 
With  a  blaze  of  blossoming; 

Other  song-birds,  piping  clear, 
Chorus  from  the  branches  near; 


606  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  my  blossoms,  palest  known, 
Bloom  for  me  and  me  alone, 

And  my  bird,  though  sad  and  lonely, 
Sings  for  me,  and  for  me  only. 
— Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  and  used  by 
kind  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

CALIFORNIA 
By  Annie  Elizabeth  Cheney 

There  are  lands  where  the  poppies  are  golden, 

Where  the  skies  are  a  rapture  in  blue, 
Where  the  breezes  on  roses  are  stealing, 

But  land  of  my  love,  what  of  you? 

There  are  lands  where  the  birds  warble  ever, 

Where  the  air  is  a-thrill  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  singer  and  song  sever  never, 

And  beauty  and  passion  are  one. 

There  are  lands  where  the  pine  and  the  palm-tree, 

The  rose  and  the  lily  are  fair, 
Where  color  is  married  to  music, 

But  magic— thy  magic — O  where? 

There  are  lands  where  the  hills  silver-crested 

Flash  far  on  a  foam-glitt'ring  sea, 
Where  Winter  weds  amorous  Summer, 

But  land  of  my  love,  what  of  thee? 

Thy  heart  like  thy  poppy  is  golden, 

Thy  story  is  writ  in  a  gleam, 
Thy  magic  like  wine  it  is  olden, 

And  hid  in  the  web  of  a  dream. 

When  the  padre  and  poet  had  found  thee, 

Thy  bells  with  a  prophecy  tolled, 
For  duty  loved  beauty,  and  round  thee 

The  fabric  of  romance  was  rolled. 


LYRIC  607 

The  vale  with  the  snow-peak  above  her 

Through  ages  in  sunlight  has  lain, 
Here  art  fondles  nature,  a  lover 

Forever  in  shine  or  rain. 

There  is  fire  where  the  poppy  is  dreaming, 

And  romance  in  woman's  large  eyes, 
There  is  splendor  where  sunbeams  are  streaming 

From  the  far,  lucid  vault  of  thy  skies. 

And  the  stars  and  the  moon  look  in  wonder 

On  thy  mountains  and  ocean  and  vale, 
From  azures  too  tender  for  thunder, 

Too  clear  for  the  lightning  of  gale. 

There  are  lands  drunk  with  summer  and  beauty, 

But  none,  magic  country,  like  thee! 
Where  the  palm  and  the  pine — love  and  duty — 

Are  friends  from  the  hills  to  the  sea. 

—From  "Dreams  of  Hellas." 


IN  BLOSSOM  TIME 
By  Ina  Coolbrith 

It's  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 

To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing — 

To  sing  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 
In  the  balm  and  the  blossoming ! 

Sing  loud,  0  bird  in  the  tree; 

O  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey-bees,  blacken  the  clover  beds — 

There  is  none  of  you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind, 
Laugh  low,  with  the  wind  at  play; 

And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul  away! 


608  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

For  O  but  the  world  is  fair,  W  fair — 

And  O  but  the  world  is  sweet ! 
I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossoming  mould, 

And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak, 

I  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim, 
That  th'  lips  of  the  blossom,  more  pure  and  meek, 

May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 

Then  sing  in  the  hedgerow  green,  O  thrush, 

O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue ; 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King  may  hear, 
And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you  1 

— From  "Songs  from  the  Golden  Gate." 
— Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  and  used  by  kind  permis- 
sion of  author  and  publisher. 

WHY? 
By  Madge  Morris  Wagner 

Why  is  it  we  grasp  at  the  shadow 

That  flits  from  us  swift  as  thought, 
While  the  real  that  maketh  the  shadow 

Stands  in  our  way  unsought? 
And  why  do  we  wonder,  and  wonder, 

What's  beyond  the  hill-tops  of  thought? 

Why  is  it  the  things  that  we  sigh  for 
Are  the  things  that  we  never  can  reach? 

Why,  only  the  sternest  experience 
A  lesson  of  patience  can  teach? 

And  why  hold  we  so  careless  and  lightly 
The  treasures  that  are  in  our  reach? 

Why  is  it  we  wait  for  the  future, 

Or  dwell  on  the  scenes  of  the  past, 
Rather  than  live  in  the  present 

Hastening  from  us  so  fast? 


LYRIC  609 

Why  is  it  the  prizes  we  toil  for, 

So  tempting  in  fancy's  mould  cast, 
Prove,  when  to  our  lips  we  have  pressed  them, 

Only  apples  of  Sodom  at  last? 
And  why  are  the  crowns,  and  the  crosses, 

So  wondrous  unequally  classed? 

Ask  it,  ye,  over  and  over, 

Let  the  winds  waft  your  question  on  high, 
Till  memory  wanes  with  the  ages, 

Till  the  stars  in  eternity  die. 
And  out  from  the  bloom  and  the  sunshine, 

From  the  rainbow  o'er-arching  the  sky, 
From  the  night  and  the  gloom  and  the  tempest, 

Echo  will  answer  you,  "Why?" 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY 
By  Alice  Cary 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  memory's  wall 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all; 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden, 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland, 

Where  the  bright  red-berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 


610  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep ; 
In  the  lap  of  that  dim  old  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty, 

Silently  covered  his  face; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS 
By  Edwin  Markham 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes — 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep : 
Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks ; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass ; 
A.  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 


LYRIC  611 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 
Life's  hoard  of  regret — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind: 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate — the  skies  expand : 
Here  the  world's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of  sand. 
Let  them  worry  and  work  in  their  narrow  walls : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls ! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream — I  swing 

Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing! 

The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 

My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a  bird ! 

— Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


TREES 

By  Joyce  Kilmer 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  who  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  her  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 


612  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  DERELICT 
By  Herbert  Bashford 

I  am  rolled  and  swung,  I  am  rocked  and  flung, 
I  am  hammered  and  heaved  and  hurled, 

I  am  tossed  and  wheeled,  I  am  blown  and  reeled 
And  battered  about  the  world. 


On  the  pushing  tide  I  ride  and  ride 

Or  loiter  and  loaf  at  ease. 
With  never  a  care,  through  foul  or  fair, 

I  follow  the  foaming  seas. 

Men  come  not  nigh  when  they  pass  me  by 

For  they  fear  me,  every  one, 
As  I  cleave  the  gray  of  the  dawning  day 

Or  drowse  in  the  summer  sun. 

Past  unknown  isles,  for  miles  and  miles 

I  wander  away  to  where 
The  iceberg  lifts  and  the  salt  spray  drifts 

In  the  freezing  arctic  air. 

I  steal  by  the  bars  when  the  flame-winged  stars 

Have  swarmed  in  the  upper  blue 
And  the  glow  and  shine  of  the  drenching  brine 

Like  white  fire  burns  me  through. 

I  haunt  as  a  ghost  the  rock-girt  coast 

Where  the  bell-buoy  loudly  rings 
And  the  breakers  leap  to  the  mighty  sweep 

Of  the  night-wind's  sable  wings. 

I  shake  and  moan,  I  creak  and  groan, 

In  the  wrathful  tempest  when 
The  old  sea  raves  and  digs  deep  graves 

For  the  jolly  sailor  men. 


LYRIC  613 

What  matters  time  or  what  the  clime 

To  a  vagrant  of  the  sea? 
To  live  or  die,  oh,  naught  care  I, 

There  is  no  port  for  me! 

— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

CHILD  OF  MY  HEART 
By  Edwin  Markham 

Child-heart ! 
Wild  heart! 
What  can  I  bring  you, 
What  can  I  sing  you, 
You  who  have  come  from  a  glory  afar, 
Called  into  Time  from  a  secret  star? 

Fleet  one! 
Sweet  one! 
Whose  was  the  wild  hand 
Shaped  you  in  child-land, 
Framing  the  flesh  with  a  flash  of  desire, 
Pouring  the  soul  as  a  fearful  fire  ? 

Strong  child! 
Song  child! 
Who  can  unravel 
All  your  long  travel 
Out  of  the  Mystery,  birth  after  birth — 
Out  of  the  dim  worlds  deeper  than  Earth? 

Mad  thing! 
Glad  thing! 
How  will  Life  time  you? 
How  will  God  name  you? 
All  that  I  know  is  that  you  are  to  me 
Wind  over  water,  star  on  the  sea. 


614  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Dear  heart! 
Near  heart! 
Long  is  the  journey, 
Hard  is  the  tourney: 
Would  I  could  be  by  your  side  when  you  fall — 
Would  that  my  own  heart  could  suffer  it  all ! 
— Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

MANDALAY 
By  Rudyard  Kipling 

By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea, 
There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  an'  I  know  she  thinks  o'  me; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees,  an'  the  temple  bells  they  say, 
"Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier,  come  you  back  to  Mandalayl" 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay; 

Can't  you  hear  the  paddles  chunkin'  from 

Rangoon  to  Mandalay? 

O  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  flyin'  fishes  play, 

An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer 

China  'crost  the  Bay! 

'Er  petticut  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 

An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — jest  the  same  as  Theebaw's  Queen, 

An'  I  seed  'er  fust  a-smokin'  of  a  whackin'  white  cheroot, 

An'  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot: 

Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 

Wot  they  called  the  great  Gawd  Budd — 

Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I 
kissed  'er  where  she  stood ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sun  was  droppin'  slow, 
She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "kulla-lo-lo !" 
With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder  an'  'er  cheek  ag'in  my  cheek 
We  uster  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  Hathis  pilin'  teak. 

Elephints  a-pilin'  teak 

In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek, 


LYRIC  615 

Where  the  silence  'ung  that  'eavy  you  was 

'arf  afraid  to  speak! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

But  that  all  shove  behind  me — long  ago  an'  fur  away, 

An'  there  ain't  no  busses  runnin'  from  the  Benk  to  Mandalay; 

An'  I'm  learnin'  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten-year  sodger  tells: 

"If  you've  'eard  the  East  a-callin',  why,  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else." 

No !  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else 

But  them  spicy  garlic  smells 

An'  the  sunshine  and  the  palm-trees  an' 
the  tinkly  temple-bells! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gutty  pavin'  stones, 
An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  a  fever  in  my  bones ; 
Tho'  I  walk  with  fifty  'ouse-maids  outer  Chelsea  to  the  Strand, 
An'  they  talk  a  lot  o'  lovin',  but  what  do  they  understand? 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  hand — 

Law!  wot  do  they  understand? 

I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a 
cleaner,  greener  land! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

Ship  me  somewhere  east  of  Suez,  where  the  best  is  like  the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man  can  raise  a  thirst ; 
For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I  would  be — 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea — 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 
With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when  we  went  to  Mandalay! 

Oh,  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  flyin'  fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China  'crost  the  Bay. 

GOLD 

By  Arthur  Guiterman 

"Meed  of  the  Toiler,"  "Flame  of  the  Sea"— 
Such  were  the  names  of  your  poets  for  me. 
"Metal  of  Mammon,"  "Curse  of  the  world" — 
These  are  the  libels  your  preachers  have  hurled, 


616  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Dug  from  the  mountain-side,  washed  in  the  glen, 
Servant  am  I  or  the  master  of  men. 
Steal  me,  I  curse  you;  earn  me,  I  bless  you; 
Grasp  me  and  hoard  me,  a  fiend  shall  possess  you. 
Lie  for  me,  die  for  me,  covet  me,  take  me — 
Angel  or  Devil,  I  am  what  you  make  me. 

Falsely  alluring,  I  shimmer  and  shine 
Over  the  millions  that  hold  me  divine. 
Trampling  each  other,  they  rush  to  adore  me, 
Heaping  the  dearest  of  treasure  before  me — 
Love  and  its  blessedness,  Youth  and  its  wealth, 
Honor,  Tranquillity,  Innocence,  Health — 
Buying  my  favor  with  evil  and  pain ; 
Huge  is  the  sacrifice,  poor  is  the  gain, 
Naught  but  my  effigy,  passionless,  cold, 
God  of  a  frenzied  idolatry — Gold ! 

GOLD 
By  Thomas  Hood 

Gold!    Goldl    Gold!    Gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammered,  and  rolled; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold ; 
Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled; 
Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mold; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold — 
Gold!    Gold!    Gold!    Gold! 

— From  "Miss  Kilmansegg. 

AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

By  Padraic  Colum 

Oh,  to  have  a  little  house! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all ! 
The  heaped-up  sods  upon  the  fire, 
The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall ! 


LYRIC  617 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains, 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down ! 
A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delf, 
Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day- 
Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 
And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 
My  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night, 
Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 
Sure  of  a  bed,  and  loath  to  leave 
The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delf ! 

Och !  but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  or  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush ! 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 
For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 

MY  LOVE'S  LIKE  A  RED  ROSE 
By  Robert  Burns 

Oh,  my  love's  like  a  red,  red  rose 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June; 
Oh,  my  love's  like  the  melodie 

That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  love  am  I : 
And  I  will  love  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  all  the  seas  gang  dry; 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  with  the  sun ; 
I  will  love  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


618  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  love ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  love, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Oh,  my  love's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June; 

Oh,  my  love's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 
By  William  Wordsworth 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind, 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been,  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills  and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  on  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 


LYRIC  619 

I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they: 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality! 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won, 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

L/ALLEGRO 

By  John  Milton 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimples  sleek, — 

Sport  that  wrinkled   Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  ye  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty: 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures   free. 

FROM  IL  PENSEROSO 

By  John  Milton 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide  watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 


620  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak: 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek: 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 

Through  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs,  the  yellow  Lotus-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 

Rolled  to  starboard,  rolled  to  larboard,  when  the  surge  was  seething 

free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotus-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurled 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are  lightly  curled 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming  world; 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and   earthquake,   roaring  deeps,  and   fiery 

sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and   sinking  ships,   and  praying 

hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centered  in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning,  though  the  words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine,  and  oil; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whispered — down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and  oar; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 


LYRIC  621 

HOME,  WOUNDED 

By  Sydney  Dobell 

Blare  the  trumpet,  and  boom  the  gun, 
But,  O,  to  sit  here  thus  in  the  sun, 
To  sit  here,  feeling  my  work  is  done, 
While  the  sands  of  life  so  golden  run, 
And  I  watch  the  children's  posies, 
And  my  idle  heart  is  whispering, 
"Bring  whatever  the  years  may  bring, 
The  flowers  will  blossom,  the  birds  will  sing, 
And  there'll  always  be  primroses." 

THE  MINARET  BELLS 
By  William  M.  Thackeray 

Tink  a  tink,  tink  a  tink, 

By  the  light  of  the  star, 
On  the  blue  river's  brink, 

I  heard  a  guitar. 

I  heard  a  guitar 

On  the  blue  waters  clear, 
And  knew  by  its  music 

That  Selim  was  near! 

Tink  a  tink,  tink  a  tink, 

How  the  soft  music  swells,- 
And  I  hear  the  soft  clink 

Of  the  minaret  bells  1 

SPRINGTIME 
By  Leonard  G.  Nattkemper 

May-time's  Spring-time, 

O  let  us  steal  away. 
Spring-time's  love-time, 

So  let  us  go  to-day. 


622  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Oh  1  the  dawn,  while  dew  is  on, 

Awakes  a  fragrant  breeze ; 
It  fills  my  room  with  rich  perfume 

From  snow-white  locust  trees. 

Across  the  grain  there  floats  a  strain 

Of  ancient  witchery; 
A  robin's  throat  hath  freed  a  note 

Of  rarest  ecstasy. 

And  while  he  sings,  within  me  springs 

An  echo  to  his  lay — 
But  how  can  words  e'er  match  this  bird's 

Sweet  song  of  Spring,  I  pray ! 

Such  noon-day  dreams  by  babbling  streams, 
There's  nothing  to  compare; 

Soft  zephyrs  blow  where  waters  flow, 
Entangling  my  hair. 

In  shady  nooks,  fond  lover  looks 

In  eyes  as  blue  as  skies ; 
And  her  reply,  though  quaint  and  shy, 

Is  what  true  love  implies. 

So  May-time's  Spring-time, 

Now  let  us  steal  away; 
Spring-time's  love-time, 

And  let  us  go  to-day. 

A  SINGING  LESSON 
By  Jean  Ingelow 

A  nightingale  made  a  mistake — 

She  sang  a  few  notes  out  of  tune — 
Her  heart  was  ready  to  break, 

And  she  hid  away  from  the  moon. 
She  wrung  her  claws,  poor  thing, 

But  was  far  too  proud  to  weep ; 
She  tucked  her  head  under  her  wing, 

And  pretended  to  be  asleep. 


LYRIC  623 


A  lark,  arm-in-arm  with  a  thrush, 

Came  sauntering  up  to  the  place; 
The  nightingale  felt  herself  blush, 

Though  feathers  hid  her  face. 
She  knew  they  had  heard  her  song, 

She  felt  them  snicker  and  sneer; 
She  thought  this  life  was  too  long, 

And  wished  she  could  skip  a  year. 

"Oh,  nightingale,"  cooed  a  dove, 

"Oh,  nightingale,  what's  the  use? 
You  bird  of  beauty  and  love, 

Why  behave  like  a  goose? 
Don't  skulk  away  from  our  sight 

Like  a  common  contemptible  fowl; 
You  bird  of  joy  and  delight, 

Why  behave  like  an  owl? 

"Only  think  of  all  you  have  done — 

Only  think  of  all  you  can  do; 
A  false  note  is  really  fun 

From  such  a  bird  as  youl 
Lift  up  your  proud  little  crest; 

Open  your  musical  beak; 
Other  birds  have  to  do  their  best, 

But  you  need  only  speak." 

The  nightingale  shyly  took 

Her  head  from  under  her  wing, 
And  giving  the  dove  a  look 

Straightway  began  to  sing. 
There  was  never  a  bird  could  pass— 

The  night  was  divinely  calm — 
And  the  people  stood  on  the  grass 

To  hear  that  wonderful  psalm. 

The  nightingale  did  not  care — 
She  only  sang  to  the  skies; 

Her  song  ascended  there, 
And  there  she  fixed  her  eyes. 


624  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  people  who  listened  below 

She  knew  but  little  about — 
And  this  tale  has  a  moral,  I  know, 

If  you'll  try  to  find  it  out. 

MORAL 

Never  give  up,  always  look  up. 

Cheer  the  discouraged. 

Strive  for  heavenly  applause. 

Care  not  for  the  praise  of  men,  but  for  the  praise  of  God. 


THE  WOLVES  OF  THE  SEA 
By  Herbert  Bashford 

From  dusk  until  dawn  they  are  hurrying  on, 

Unfettered  and  fearless  they  flee; 
From  morn  until  eve  they  plunder  and  thieve — 

The  hungry,  white  wolves  of  the  Sea  1 

With  never  a  rest,  they  race  to  the  west, 

To  the  Orient's  rim  do  they  run; 
By  the  berg  and  the  floe  of  the  northland  they  go 

And  away  to  the  isles  of  the  sun. 

They  wail  at  the  moon  from  the  desolate  dune 
Till  the  air  has  grown  dank  with  their  breath; 

They  snarl  at  the  stars  from  the  treacherous  bars 
Of  the  coasts  that  are  haunted  by  Death. 

They  grapple  and  bite  in  a  keen,  mad  delight 

As  they  feed  on  the  bosom  of  Grief; 
And  one  steals  away  to  a  cave  with  his  prey, 

And  one  to  the  rocks  of  the  reef. 

With  the  froth  on  their  lips  they  follow  the  ships, 

Each  striving  to  lead  in  the  chase; 
Since  loosed  by  the  hand  of  the  King  of  their  band 

They  have  known  but  the  rush  of  the  race. 


LYRIC  625 

They  are  shaggy  and  old,  yet  as  mighty  and  bold 

As  when  God's  freshest  gale  set  them  free; 
Not  a  sail  is  unfurled  in  a  part  of  the  world 
But  is  prey  for  the  wolves  of  the  Sea! 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 


OLD  IRONSIDES 
By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  I 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  hero's  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  1 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 


626  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

COLUMBUS 
By  Joaquin  Miller 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores; 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said :     "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why,  say :  'Sail  on !  sail  on  !  and  on !'  " 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn  ?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day : 

'Sail  on !    Sail  on !    Sail  on !  and  on  1' " 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said: 
•  "Why,  now,  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way; 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Adm'r'l ;  speak  and  say — " 

He  said:    "Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

They  sailed :  they  sailed.    Then  spake  the  mate : 

"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night, 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite ! 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word : 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword : 

"Sail  on!     Sail  on!     Sail  on!   and  on!" 


LYRIC  627 

Then  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights !    And  then  a  speck — 

A  light  1    Alight?    Alight!    Alight! 
It  grew ;  a  starlit  flag  unfurled ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson :     "On !    sail  on !" 
— Copyright  by  Harr  Wagner  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  used  by  kind 
permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

DAYBREAK 
By  Robert  Browning 

Day! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last : 

Boils  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 

Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 

For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 

Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 

Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away; 

But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 

Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 

Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 

Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the  world. 

Oh,  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 

A  mite  of  my  twelve  hours'  treasure, 

The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to  or  gifts  above  measure) 

One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances, 

(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee  or  freaks  at  thy  pleasure) 

— My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labor  or  leisure, 

Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me! 

Thy  long,  blue,  solemn  hours  serenely  flowing, 
Whence  earth,  we  feel,  gets  steady  help  and  good — 
Thy  fitful  sunshine-minutes,  coming,  going, 
As  if  earth  turned  from  work  in  gamesome  mood — 


628  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

All  shall  be  mine !    But  thou  must  treat  me  not 
As  prosperous  ones  are  treated,  those  who  live 
At  hand  here,  and  enjoy  the  higher  lot, 
In  readiness  to  take  what  thou  wilt  give, 
And  free  to  let  alone  what  thou  refusest; 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pippa, — old-year's  sorrow, 
Cast  off  last  night,  will  come  again  to-morrow: 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall  borrow 
Sufficient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's  sorrow. 
All  other  men  and  women  that  this  earth 
Belongs  to,  who  all  days  alike  possess, 
Make  general  plenty  cure  particular  dearth, 
Get  more  joy  one  way,  if  another,  less : 
Thou  art  my  single  day,  God  lends  to  leaven 
What  were  all  earth  else,  with  a  feel  of  heaven. 

— From  "Pippa  Passes. 

MY  SWORD  SONG 
By  Richard  Realf 

Day  in,  day  out,  through  the  long  campaign, 

I  march  in  my  place  in  the  ranks ; 
And  whether  it  shine  or  whether  it  rain, 

My  good  sword  cheerily  clanks ; 
It  clanks  and  clanks  in  a  knightly  way 

Like  the  ring  of  an  armored  heel; 
And  this  is  the  song  which  day  by  day, 

It  sings  with  its  lips  of  steel : 

"O  friend,  from  whom  a  hundred  times, 

I  have  felt  the  strenuous  grip 
Of  the  all-renouncing  love  that  climbs 

To  the  heights  of  fellowship ; 
Are  you  tired  of  all  the  weary  miles? 

Are  you  faint  with  your  swooning  limbs? 
Do  you  hunger  back  for  the  olden  smiles, 

And  the  lilt  of  olden  hymns? 


LYRIC  629 

"Has  your  heart  grown  weak  since  that  rapt  hour 

When  you  leapt,  with  a  single  bound, 
From  dreaming  ease  to  sovereign  power 

Of  a  living  soul  world-crowned? 
Behold  1  the  aloes  of  sacrifice 

Are  better  than  radiant  wine, 
And  the  bloody  sweat  of  a  cause  like  this 

Is  an  agony  divine. 

"Under  the  wail  of  the  shuddering  world 

Amoan  for  its  fallen  sons; 
Over  the  volleying  thunders  hurled 

From  the  throats  of  the  wrathful  guns; 
Above  the  roar  of  the  plunging  line 

That  rocks  with  the  fury  of  hell, 
Runs  the  absolute  voice :     O  Earth  of  mine, 

Be  patient,  for  all  is  well!" 

Thus  sings  my  sword  to  my  soul,  and  I, 

Albeit  the  way  is  long, 
As  soiled  clouds  darken  athwart  the  sky — 

Still  keep  my  spirit  strong: 
Whether  I  live,  or  whether  I  lie 

On  the  stained  ground,  ghastly  and  stark, 
Beyond  the  carnage  I  shall  descry 

God's  love  shines  across  the  dark. 
—Copyright  by  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  and  used  by  their 
kind  permission. 

LABOR 
Anonymous 

Toil  swings  the  ax,  and  forests  bow; 

The  seeds  break  out  in  radiant  bloom, 
Rich  harvests  smile  behind  the  plow, 

And  cities  cluster  round  the  loom ; 
Where  towering  domes  and  tapering  spires 

Adorn  the  vale  and  crown  the  hill, 
Stout  labor  lights  its  beacon-fires, 

And  plumes  with  smoke  the  forge  and  mill. 


630  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

The  monarch  oak,  the  woodland's  pride, 

Whose  trunk  is  seamed  with  lightning  scars, 
Toil  launches  on  the  restless  tide, 

And  there  unrolls  the  flag  of  stars ; 
The  engine  with  its  lungs  of  flame, 

And  ribs  of  brass  and  joints  of  steel, 
From  Labor's- plastic  fingers  came, 

With  sobbing  valve  and  whirling  wheel. 

'Tis  Labor  works  the  magic  press, 

And  turns  the  crank  in  hives  of  toil, 
And  beckons  angels  down  to  bless 

Industrious  hands  on  sea  and  soil. 
Here  sun-brown  Toil,  with  shining  spade, 

Links  lake  to  lake  with  silver  ties 
Strung  thick  with  palaces  of  trade, 

And  temples  towering  to  the  skies. 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG1 

By  Henry  W.  Longfellow 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

1  "  'The  Arrow  and  the  Song'  came  into  my  mind  and  glanced  on  to  the  paper 
with  an  arrow's  speed — literally  an  improvisation,"  said  Longfellow.  The  poem 
has  been  exceedingly  popular,  both  when  recited  and  also  when  sung  to  the  beau- 
tiful music  composed  for  it  by  the  Italian  song-writer,  Ciro  Pinsuti. 


LYRIC  631 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  GABRIEL 
By  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

[Particularly  note  the  possibility  of  onomatopoesy  in  the  following  refrain. 
What  answer  do  the  bells  give  to  the  questions  of  the  poet?  There  is  no  other 
answer  than  their  steady,  monotonous  toll.  The  answer  must  be  found  in  your 
own  heart,  viz.,  that  no  good  work,  done  with  high  zeal  and  enthusiasm,  with  self- 
sacrifice,  ever  can  be  in  vain.  Then  read  the  refrain  as  a  bell  would  sound,  if  it 
were  struck  at  the  end  of  each  line,  prolonging  the  sound  to  correspond  with  the 
continued  resonance  of  the  bell.] 

Thine  was  the  corn  and  the  wine, 

The  blood  of  the  grape  that  nourished; 
The  blossom  and  fruit  of  the  vine 

That  was  heralded  far  away. 
These  were  thy  gifts ;  and  thine, 

When  the  vine  and  the  fig-tree  flourished, 
The  promise  of  peace  and  of  glad  increase 

Forever  and  ever  and  aye. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now  ? 

Answer  me,  O,  I  pray! 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Oil  of  the  olive  was  thine ; 

Flood  of  the  wine-press  flowing; 
Blood  o'  the  Christ  was  the  wine — 

Blood  o'  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 
Thy  gifts  were  fat  o'  the  kine 

Forever  coming  and  going 
Over  the  hills,  the  thousand  hills, 

Their  lowing  a  soft  refrain. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

Answer  me,  once  again! 


And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 

In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


632  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Seed  o'  the  corn  was  thine — 

Body  of  Him  thus  broken 
And  mingled  with  blood  o'  the  vine — 

The  bread  and  the  wine  of  life; 
Out  of  the  good  sunshine 

They  were  given  to  thee  as  a  token — 
The  body  of  Him,  and  the  blood  of  Him, 

When  the  gifts  of  God  were  rife. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

After  the  weary  strife? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 

In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  bells  ? 

Where  are  the  fruits  o'  the  Mission? 
Garnered,  where  no  one  dwells. 

Shepherd  and  flock  are  fled. 
O'er  the  Lord's  vineyard  swells 

The  tide  that  with  fell  perdition 
Sounded  their  doom  and  fashioned  their  tomb 

And  buried  them  with  the  dead. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? — 

The  answer  is  still  unsaid. 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 

In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  tower  1 

The  locusts  and  wild  honey? 
Where  is  the  sacred  dower 

That  the  bride  of  Christ  was  given? 
Gone  to  the  builders  of  power, 

The  misers  and  minters  of  money; 
Gone  for  the  greed  that  is  their  creed — 

And  these  in  the  land  have  thriven. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

And  wherefore  hast  thou  striven? 


LYRIC  633 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel  1 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

— Copyright  by  John  Lane,  New  York,  and  used  by  kind  permission. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA 

March  7,  1863 

By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea,  Alexandra! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee,  Alexandra! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet, 

Scatter  the  blossoms  under  her  feet  1 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers! 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  prayer! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours  I 

Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare! 

Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers! 

Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air! 

Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire ! 

Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 

Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 

Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand, 

Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land, 

And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire. 

The  sea-kings'  daughter  is  happy  as  fair, 

Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 

Bride  of  the  sire  of  the  kings  of  the  sea — 

O  joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the  throne, 

Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your  own; 


634  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee,  Alexandra  1 

*      CHRISTMAS  IN  INDIA 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

Dim  dusk  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is  saffron  yellow — 

As  the  women  in  the  village  grind  the  corn, 
And  the  parrots  seek  the  river-side,  each  calling  to  his  fellow 
That  the  Day,  the  staring  Eastern  Day  is  born. 

Oh,  the  white  on  the  highway  1     Oh,  the  stenches  in  the  byway! 
Oh,  the  clammy  fog  that  hovers  over  earth! 
And  at  home  they're  making  merry  'neath  the  white  and  scarlet  berry — 
What  part  have  India's  exiles  in  their  mirth? 

Full  day  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is  blue  and  staring — 

As  the  cattle  crawl  afield  beneath  the  yoke, 
And  they  bear  one  o'er  the  field  path,  who  is  past  all  hope  or  caring, 
To  the  ghat  below  the  curling  wreaths  of  smoke. 

Call  on  Rama,  going  slowly,  as  ye  bear  a  brother  slowly — 
Call  on  Rama — he  may  hear,  perhaps,  your  voice! 
With  our  hymn-books  and  our  psalters  we  appeal  to  other  altars, 
And  to-day  we  bid  good  Christian  men  rejoice  1 

High  noon  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sun  is  hot  above  us — 

As  at  home  the  Christmas  Day  is  breaking  wan, 
They  will  drink  our  healths  at  dinner — those  who  tell  us  how  they 
love  us, 
And  forget  us  till  another  year  be  gone ! 
Oh,  the  toil  that  knows  no  breaking !    Oh,  the  Heimweh,  ceaseless,  aching  1 
Oh,  the  black  dividing  sea  and  alien  plain. 
Youth  was  cheap,  wherefor  we  sold  it. 
Gold  was  good — we  hoped  to  hold  it, 
And  to-day  we  know  the  fullness  of  our  gain. 

Gray  dusk  behind  the  tamarisks — the  parrots  fly  together — 

As  the  sun  is  sinking  slowly  over  Home; 
And  the  last  ray  seems  to  mock  us  shackled  in  a  lifelong  tether 

That  drags  us  back  howe'er  so  far  we  roam. 


LYRIC  635 

Hard  her  service,  poor  her  payment — she  in  ancient,  tattered  raiment — 
India,  she  the  grim  stepmother  of  our  kind. 

If  a  year  of  life  be  lent  her,  if  her  temple's  shrine  we  enter, 
The  door  is  shut — we  may  not  look  behind. 

Black  night  behind  the  tamarisks — the  owls  begin  their  chorus — 

As  the  conches  from  the  temple  scream  and  bray. 
With  fruitless  years  behind  us,  and  the  hopeless  years  before  us, 

Let  us  honor,  O  my  brothers,  Christmas  Day! 
Call  a  truce,  then,  to  our  labors — let  us  feast  with  friends  and  neighbors, 

And  be  merry  as  the  custom  of  our  caste ; 
For  if  "faint  and  forced  the  laughter,"  and  if  sadness  follow  after, 
We  are  richer  by  one  mocking  Christmas  past. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON 

By  Francis  Mahony 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sound  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine ; 


63$  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

While  at  a  glib  rate 

Brass  tongues  would  vibrate; 

But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican; 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
O,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow 
Where  on  tower  and  kiosko 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
.   From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 


LYRIC  637 


Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them; 
But  there's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me; 
Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sounds  so  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 


THE  DAY  AND  THE  WORK 
By  Edwin  Markham 

To  each  man  is  given  a  day  and  his  work  for  the  day ; 
And  once,  and  no  more,  he  is  given  to  travel  this  way. 
And  woe  if  he  flies  from  the  task,  whatever  the  odds; 
For  the  task  is  appointed  to  him  on  the  scroll  of  the  gods. 

There  is  waiting  a  work  where  only  your  hands  ean  avail; 
And  so  if  you  falter,  a  chord  in  the  music  will  fail. 
We  may  laugh  to  the  sky,  we  may  lie  for  an  hour  in  the  sun ; 
But  we  dare  not  go  hence  till  the  labor  appointed  is  done. 

To  each  man  is  given  a  marble  to  carve  for  the  wall, 
A  stone  that  is  needed  to  heighten  the  beauty  of  all; 
And  only  his  soul  has  the  magic  to  give  it  a  grace, 
And  only  his  hands  have  the  cunning  to  put  it  in  place. 

We  are  given  one  hour  to  parley  and  struggle  with  Fate, 

Our  wild  hearts  filled  with  the  dream,  our  brains  with  the  high  debate. 

It  is  given  to  look  on  life  once,  and  once  only  to  die: 

One  testing,  and  then  at  a  sign  we  go  out  of  this  sky. 

And  the  task  that  is  given  to  each  man  no  other  can  do ; 
So  the  work  is  awaiting:  it  has  waited  through  ages  for  you. 
And  now  you  appear ;  and  the  Hushed  Ones  are  turning  their  gaze 
To  see  what  you  do  with  your  chance  in  the  chamber  of  days. 


638  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  REGRET 
W.  T.  P. 

[This  exquisite  threnody  was  written  by  the  "gardener  poet"  of  California, 
Samuel  J.  Alexander,  of  San  Mateo.  The  local  geographical  references  will  be 
understood  only  by  those  familiar  with  the  country,  but  the  cry  of  the  bereaved 
heart  and  life  will  find  immediate  response  from  the  universal  heart.  As  a  poem  of 
deep,  tender  emotion,  its  study  and  rendition  orally  will  be  more  than  well  repaid.] 

Dawn  on  the  hill  tops  flushes  red 

In  the  Day's  embrace,  and  her  blush  is  spread 

A  benediction  above  the  dead. 

Dawn,  and  I  stand  again  with  Dawn 

On  the  jeweled  turf  of  Cypress  Lawn. 

Grief  led  my  feet,  by  Reverence  shod, 

Into  the  presence  of  the  God, 

The  gentle  God,  Who,  compassionate, 

Welcome's  Life's  Beggars  within  His  gate. 

So  I  went  soft  shod,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

Through  His  House  Beautiful  with  Him. 

And  with  hushed  heart  I  sought  and  found 

A  Grave  more  dear  than  the  graves  around. 

Did  I  think  to  find  thee  shut  in  and  hid 

In  a  man-made  box,  'neath  a  man-made  lid? 

Thou,  from  the  sunlight  hidden  away, 

Who  wert  dew  of  the  dawn  and  flame  of  dayl 

Thou  fettered  by  Silence?     Why,  thy  voice 

Called  up  the  Dawn  and  bade  Day  rejoice. 

Thou  circled  by  shadows?     Why,  thine  eyes 

Were  forest  pools  beneath  starry  skies. 

And  Day  might  have  claimed,  to  illume  his  crown, 

Their  starlight  tangled  in  deeps  of  brown. 

With  what  reluctance,  and  with  what  dread, 

I,  who  loved  thee  living,  have  sought  thee  dead. 

And  all  unwilling,  my  feet  were  drawn 

By  a  will  compelling  that  led  them  on. 

I  have  come  to  seek  thee;  the  way  was  long, 

For  the  years  between  us  rose  high  and  strong. 

I  have  come  to  seek  thee,  who  held  thee  dear, 

But  I  may  not  find  thee,  who  art  not  here. 


LYRIC  639 

Life  was  a  song ;  and  sun  and  moon 

Wove  all  color  into  the  tune. 

Life  was  a  jewel;  we  laughed  and  pressed 

The  glowing  ruby  against  our  breast. 

Life  was  a  bubble;  we  tossed  it  high, 

Up  to  the  rainbow  that  spanned  our  sky. 

Life  was  a  magic  mantle,  wove 

By  fairy  hands,  in  a  charmed  grove, 

Wherewith  we  wrapped  ourselves  around 

In  wide,  free  spaces,  where  God  is  found. 

Life  was  a  torrent,  that  overflowed 

San  Bruno's  mountains  and  Mission  Road; 

Canyons,  gashed  in  a  mountain  wall, 

With  the  wound  healed  over  by  chapparal; 

Mist-clad  hollows,  and  gusty  plains, 

Curbed  by  the  wind  with  galling  reins. 

Colma,  cradled  green  hills  between; 

Belmont,  tossed  upon  waves  of  green; 

Woodside  mountains  and  Alma's  woods, 

La  Honda's  Altar  of  Solitudes; 

World's  Edge  hills,  where  the  road  goes  down 

In  a  tangle  of  curves  to  Spanishtown; 

Ocean  View  and  San  Pedro  beach, 

These  are  the  heart's  red  throbs  of  speech. 

These  are  the  holy  names  that  stand 

Guide  Posts  of  God  into  Holy  Land. 

And  these  are  the  Calvary  Stations,  set 

On  my  way  through  The  Land  of  Heart's  Regret. 

Life  no  longer  imperious  calls 

With  a  silver  trumpet  from  golden  walls. 

My  ears  grow  dull  and  my  eyes  grow  dim, 

He  wearies  of  me,  as  I  of  him. 

I  will  rise;  I  will  go  my  ways  and  pass 

From  that  I  am  unto  that  I  was. 

I  will  drug  my  senses  and  drown  my  soul 

Where  the  incense  clouds  from  the  altar  roll, 

In  the  golden  shrine,  with  the  golden  key, 

Where  dwells  our  Lady  of  Memory. 

Though  new  grief  grow  with  the  old  heart  hurt, 

Here  shall  I  see  thee  as  thou  wert. 


640  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Still  companion  on  lonely  hill, 
In  forest  solitude,  comrade  still. 

And  Memory  led  me  by  the  hand 

From  God's  Field,  back  into  Holy  Land, 

Lit  by  the  wonderful  afterglow 

Of  a  day  that  withered  long  ago. 

And  the  gum  trees  moved  their  lips  and  spoke 

In  the  alien  language  of  the  oak. 

And  there  grew  up  tall  before  my  eyes 

Pillared  redwoods,  that  prop  the  skies. 

And  we  stood  again  where  the  lilies  stand, 

Torches,  lighting  a  twilight  land; 

Lamps  of  the  forest,  flashing  red, 

While  the  darkness  gathered  overhead. 

For,  robed  in  her  purple,  the  Night  came  down, 

Weaving  the  starlight  into  her  gown; 

And  the  moon  arose,  like  a  bubble,  blown 

By  the  children  playing  about  Christ's  Throne; 

And  the  iridescent  gem  was  set 

As  an  opal  in  her  coronet. 

And  our  souls  flashed  up  above  the  night, 

And  clung  together  and  made  one  light. 

And  the  brook  swept  by,  and  as  it  went 

Sang  us  the  song  of  heart's  content. 

And  our  campfire  set  its  smoke  unfurled 

A  flag  on  the  roof  of  the  fair,  green  world. 

Now,  La  Honda's  sacred  solitudes 

Vainly  call  me  from  hills  and  woods; 

These  for  me  shall  remain  untrod, 

Sacred  to  Memory  and  to  God. 

But  these  and  thee  I  shall  not  forget 

Till  Grief  wed  Joy  and  divorce  Regret. 

And  by  all  that  was  and  by  all  that  is, 

And  for  all  that  we  were,  I  ask  thee  this, 

Friend  of  my  Past,  grow  not  too  high, 

That  I  may  reach  unto  thee,  even  I, 

When,  with  eyes  grown  clearer,  I  see  thine  eyes 

As  the  Dawn  of  Remembered  Days  arise, 

Or  as  Stars  of  Home,  in  the  alien  skies. 


LYRIC  641 

VENGEANCE  IS  THINE 

By  S.  J.  Alexander 

Vengeance  is  Mine,  saith  the  Lord ; 
But  there  cometh  the  Hour  and  the  Man, 
And  the  tangled  red  knots  of  His  Plan 
Cry  out  for  the  Hand  on  His  Sword. 

And  these  are  the  Words  that  He  saith, 
And  the  Will  of  the  Words  of  His  Mouth, 
To  the  men  of  His  Lands  of  the  South 
In  the  Halls  of  His  City  of  Death : 

"I  am  slow  to  repay,"  saith  the  Lord : 
"My  Patience  and  Mercy  endure ; 
But  the  day  of  My  Vengeance  is  sure, 
And  This  is  My  Will  and  My  Word : 

"Ye  shall  draw  My  Sword  out  from  its  sheath ; 
Ye  shall  strike  at  the  bosom  of  Guilt; 
Ye  shall  stab  the  red  blade  to  its  hilt 
In  the  black  heart  that  lieth  beneath. 

"With  My  Name  on  your  lips  ye  shall  draw ; 
And  the  Name  which  your  lips  may  not  speak 
Ye  shall  bear  in  your  soul,  as  ye  wreak 
The  ultimate  end  of  My  Law. 

"My  Anger  encompassed  them  still 
When  they  took  the  Black  Vow,  nothing  loath ; 
My  Oath  rose  up  over  their  oath, 
And  broke  it  and  bent  to  My  Will. 

"I  have  waited,  withheld  and  withstood, 
But  I  weary  of  all,"  saith  the  Lord, 
"And  the  Cup  of  My  Anger,  Jong  stored, 
Ye  shall  spill  on  the  Spillers  of  Blood." 


642  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

TO  A  FEBRUARY  BUTTERFLY 
By  S.  J.  Alexander 

Rainbow  that  flasheth  by, 

Flower  that  flieth, 
Sunshine  from  summer  sky, 

Jewel  that  dieth; 

Winter  still  lingers  near, 

Ruthlessly  cruel, 
Why  hast  thou  entered  here, 

Flower  and  jewel? 

Out  of  what  tropic  sky, 

Camest  thou,  gleaming, 
Thrilled  with  a  purpose  high, 

Psyche-like  dreaming? 

Now,  in  thy  poverty 

Dost  thou  inherit 
Orchids  of  memory, 

Palms  of  the  spirit. 

Wings  of  the  butterfly, 

Soul  of  the  Poet, 
Drenched  from  a  dripping  sky, 

Scorned  from  below  it; 

Broke  on  Fate's  torture  wheel, 

Shattered  asunder, 
We,  who  are  winged,  feel 

God's  lightest  thunder. 

Soul  of  the  butterfly, 

Bravely  wayfaring, 
Teach  me,  that  even  I 

Reach  to  thy  daring. 

Now  with  our  wings  unfurled 

Go  we  together 
Out  of  this  sodden  world,. 

Into  fair  weather. 


LYRIC  643 

THE  GOD'S  CUP 

By  S.  J.  Alexander 

The  Sun  God  gave  his  radiant  Gift 

In  a  clay  cup,  whose  flaw  and  rift 

With  many  a  blur  and  many  a  stain 

Cried  out  to  him,  and  cried  in  vain, 

For  a  fair  vase  of  porcelain. 

Men  looked  at  it  before  they  quaffed 

The  God's  wine  in  its  depths,  and  laughed. 

"The  thing's  old-fashioned,  quite  antique," 

— The  cup,  in  truth,  was  Attic  Greek — 

"A  cup,  one  could  not  say  a  vase, 

Made  for  base  uses  of  the  base."  • 

But  if  they  pressed  their  lips  to  drink, 

All  heaven  trembled  on  the  brink 

Like  molten  jewels,  welling  up 

From  the  deep  measure  of  the  cup; 

And  in  the  glamor  of  the  spell 

God's  Silence  became  audible ; 

The  soundless  music  of  the  spheres 

Rang  through  the  ringing  in  their  ears. 

They  heard  the  hum  of  Attic  bees 

Upon  Hymettus;  and  the  seas 

Rose  up,  white  lipped,  with  dripping  hair 

To  teach  the  secret  of  Despair; 

Yet  more.    Their  ravished  vision  saw 

All  Glory  flash  above  the  flaw 

That  men  esteem  as  Nature's  law; 

While  Fancy,  wiser,  sees  the  Fates 

Sit  spinning  at  the  Ivory  Gates, 

From  whence  Divine  Illusion  gives 

The  evanescent  gift  that  lives. 

So,  swept  on  swelling  waves  of  sound, 

In  seas  of  rapturous  music  drowned, 

So,  tossed  from  height  to  upper  height 

Of  the  God's  mountain  peaks  of  light, 

With  trembling  lip  and  gasping  breath 

They  drank  His  Radiant  Life  and  Death ; 


644  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  deemed  a  jewel  half  divine 
The  cup  that  held  the  Sacred  Wine. 
The  wine,  in  its  too  potent  strength, 
Ate  through  the  fragile  clay  at  length; 
The  cup  .fell  broken  to  the  ground ; 
The  God  laughed  at  the  ruin  'round; 
His  wine  was  spilt  on  every  side, 
And  men,  men  said,  "The  Poet  Died." 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  BULLETS 

By  John  Milton  Scott 

I 

I  cut  the  air  and  it  sang  to  me 

Like  a  serpent's  hiss  with  its  fanged  kiss, 

And  the  leaping  leagues  upsprang  to  me; 

But  I  passed  them  all  with  the  battle's  call, 

As  with  maddening  joy  I  scream,  I  screamed 

The  death  which  the  wrathful  warrior  dreamed. 

The  mad  red  death  which  the  warrior  dreamed. 

/  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go — 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show ; 

Pictures  of  home  in  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

Home  among  vines  and  green  fields, 
Cattle  and  horses  and  sheep, 

Husband  and  wife  in  the  joy  of  their  life, 
Children  that  play,  children  that  pray, 
On  the  bosom  a  babe  and  its  lullabied  sleep. 

Sleep !    sleep  !    sleep  !    my  baby,  sleep  ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep 


LYRIC  645 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds. 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
When  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep  !    sleep  !    sleep  !    my  baby,  sleep. 

'Neath  a  Belgian  sky  sang  this  lullaby. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 

As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 

0  why  do  the  children  and  women  weep 

As  the  war-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 

0  this  red!  red!  red! 

0  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank. 
Step!  siep!  siep! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life 
Step!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  w'eep. 

II 

1  tear  the  air,  and  its  fine  silk  rips 

As  my  kill-song  sings  from  the  rifle's  lips, 

1  destroy  air-joy  which  the  glad  birds  sing 
When  in  love  and  life  the  winds  they  wing; 

Theirs  is  a  song  of  love  and  life ! 
Mine  is  a  snarl  of  hate  and  strife ! 
The  mad  red  snarl  of  hate  and  strife. 

I  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 


646  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go — 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show; 

Pictures  of  home  in  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

A  school,  a  teacher  and  pupils  bright, 

Lessons  and  laughter  and  play, 
Girls  and  boys  in  their  school-day  joys, 
Maid  and  youth  in  their  search  for  truth ; 

Then  home  in  the  shades  of  the  rounded  day. 

Sleep !    sleep !   sleep !   my  baby,  sleep ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep, 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds, 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
When  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep  !    sleep !   sleep  !    my  baby,  sleep. 

In  the  German  tongue  this  sleep-song  sung. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 
As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 
O  why  do  the  women  and  children  weep 
As  the  war-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 

O  this  red!  red!  red! 
O  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  weep. 


LYRIC  647 


III 

I  murder  the  peace  of  summer  winds ; 

I  startle  the  kine  and  make  dogs  whine ; 
I'm  the  fury  of  fight,  I'm  hell's  delight ; 

I'm  the  black  of  death  with  its  stiffening  breath; 
I'm  insanity's  shriek  as  I  try  to  speak; 

I  am  agony's  glare  and  its  wild  despair ; 
I'm  the  hiss  elate  of  the  warrior's  hate, 

The  mad,  red  hiss  of  the  warrior's  hate. 

/  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go — 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show; 

Pictures  of  home  in  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

A  hammer  and  anvil  and  lowly  cot, 

Blossoms  ashine  and  the  fruitful  vine, 
The  flying  of  sparks,  the  singing  of  larks 
And  the  rapturing  stir  of  the  voice  of  her, 

Outsinging  the  larks  in  her  joys  divine. 

Sleep !    sleep !   sleep !    my  baby,  sleep ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep, 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds, 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
When  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep !    sleep !    sleep !    my  baby,  sleep. 

In  joy-hearted  France  sings  this  love's  romance. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 
As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 
O  why  do  the  children  and  women  weep 
As  the  zvar-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 


648  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

O  this  red!  red!  red! 
O  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  Weep. 

IV 

I  am  rifle-sent,  and  the  air  is  rent 

In  tatters  and  rags  and  stains ; 
I  burn  my  path  of  the  warrior's  wrath 

Too  hot  to  be  cooled  by  rains ; 
I  murder  the  song  of  the  rapturing  thrush 
As  I  chant  war's  wrath  with  its  ripping  rush. 
The  mad  red  wrath  with  its  ripping  rush. 

His  is  a  song  of  love  and  life, 

Mine  is  a  screech  of  hate  and  strife. 

/  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go — 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show ; 

Pictures  of  home  in  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

A  meadow  alined  by  English  lanes; 

And  Shelley's  lark  is  in  the  sky, 
And  Shakespeare's  sheep,  in  clover  deep ; 
A  house  by  the  spring  and  a  grapevine  swing, 

A  mother's  song  and  a  babe's  reply. 


LYRIC  649 

Sleep !    sleep !   sleep !   my  baby,  sleep ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep, 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds, 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
When  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep  !    sleep  !   sleep  !    my  baby,  sleep. 

Child  hearts  rejoice  in  this  English  voice. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 

As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 

0  why  do  the  children  and  women  weep 
As  the  war-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 

0  this  red!  red!  red! 

0  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank. 
Siep!  siep!  step! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  Weep. 

V 

I'm  a  blighting  swift,  outflying  storms, 

1  ruin  and  run  as  I  shriek  my  fun; 
With  a  screech  of  fear  in  the  startled  ear, 

1  crush  the  hope  and  distill  the  tear, 

The  tear  of  love,  the  hope  of  hearts ; 

I  blight  and  blast  with  Destruction's  arts. 

With  the  mad,  red  blight  of  Destruction's  arts. 

/  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 


650  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go— 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show ; 

Pictures  of  home  in  the  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

The  Danube  blue,  the  Alsatian  heights, 

And  a  lover  who  sings  to  his  maiden  true, 

The  song  and  the  kiss,  the  troth  and  its  bliss, 

Two  hearts  abeat  in  the  love  complete, 

And  the  brown  eyes  marry  the  eyes  of  blue. 

Sleep !    sleep !   sleep !    my  baby,  sleep ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep, 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds, 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
When  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep !    sleep  1   sleep !    my  baby,  sleep. 

An  Austrian  sings  these  rapturings. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 
As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 
O  why  do  the  children  and  women  weep 
As  the  war-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 

O  this  red!  red!  red! 
O  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank.    . 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  weep. 


LYRIC  651 

VI 

I  cut  the  air  with  growls  of  wrath ; 

I  am  black  woe's  bite  as  I  bark  and  fight, 

I'm  the  mad  dog's  fang,  and  I  lead  the  gang 
As  we  wolf  together  on  war's  red  path ; 

We  rend  the  flesh,  and  we  wreck  the  mind; 

We're  the  war-wrath's  lust,  and  we're  wild  and  blind, — 

The  red  wrath's  lust  that  is  wild  and  blind. 

/  sing!  sing!  sing!  the  wrathful  warrior's  song. 

Then  ping!  ping!  ping!  'tis  the  wrathful  warrior's  wrong. 

I  red  in  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Fulfilling  the  warrior's  woe. 

But  this  I  see  before  I  go — 

A  beauty  blackening  battle's  show ; 

Pictures  of  home  in  heart  and  brain 

That  blot  and  blank  in  my  war's  refrain. 

A  bearded  peasant  and  Tolstoy's  book, 

Fulfilling  the  Christ's  great  way  of  peace, 
His  neighbors,  dear  as  the  ripened  year; 
'Twas  a  neighbor's  girl  with  laugh  and  curl 

Who  mothered  his  flock  of  the  sweet  increase. 

Sleep !    sleep !   sleep !   my  baby,  sleep ! 
Christ  is  the  shepherd  of  His  sheep, 

And  lambs  like  you  to  His  heart  he  folds, 

And  safely  holds,  all  safely  holds, 
Till  the  dark  night  dies  in  the  arms  of  day, 
WThen  He  kisses  my  lamb  awake  to  play. 

Sleep  !    sleep !   sleep !   my  baby,  sleep. 

Like  a  Russian  dove  croons  this  song  of  love. 

But  why;  why  do  the  children  cry, 
As  the  husband  true  bids  a  brave  good-by? 
O  why  do  the  children  and  women  weep 
As  the  ivar-woes  over  their  gladness  creep? 


652  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

O  this  red',  red!  red! 
O  this  blood  I  have  shed 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap; 

And  the  pictures  grow  dim,  and  the  pictures  grow  blank, 
But  the  weeds  on  this  field  will  grow  poison  and  rank. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
The  blood  runs  apace,  and  gone  is  the  face 
Of  baby  and  wife, 
Of  love  and  of  life. 
Siep!  siep!  siep! 
When  from  rifles  of  warriors  I  leap. 

This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  weep. 

VII 

'Twas  wild  wrath-riot,  'twas  riot  of  death, 
This  bacchanal  black  making  war's  red  wrack, 
This  blood  debauch  and  delirium, 
Love's  hand  palsied,  truth's  tongue  dumb, — 
Blotting  brave  brains  of  mothers'  refrains, 
Voices  of  children,  enchantments  of  home, 
The-Cathedral-of-man's  earth-rounding  dome 
Which  visioning  together  might  well  have  wrought, 
Out  of  the  heart  of  brothering  thought. 

And  now  that  our  screaming  wrath  is  done, 
And  our  place  in  the  sky  is  filled  with  birds 
Whose  songs  seem  the  voice  of  the  gracious  sun, 
Behind  us  the  wrath  and  the  ruin  left, 
We  are  bruised  and  broken  in  fields  bereft 
Of  their  gentle  flocks  and  peaceful  herds; 
We  know,  we  know  in  our  black  war-woe, 
There's  not  a  grace  of  gain  for  it  all, 
There's  not  a  spear  of  grain  from  it  all. 

O  woe  are  we  in  this  rusted  red, 

And  woe  the  hearts  which  we've  pierced  and  bled; 


LYRIC  653 

No  honor  is  here,  no  glory  bright, 
But  shame  that  is  deeper  than  speech  can  tell, 
But  shame  that  is  blacker  than  pits  of  hell, 
The  shame  of  a  night  unblessed  by  light, 
The  shame  of  a  brain  with  its  murder  stain, 
And  a  heart  in  the  grime  of  war's  red  crime. 

Woe !  woe !  woe,  is  the  end  of  the  path 
That  blackens  and  blights  from  war's  red  wrath. 
This,  this  is  why  sweet  children  cry 
And  wives  and  mothers  vainly  weep — 
As  the  war-woes  over  their  gladness  creep. 

— Copyright,  1914,  by  John  Milton  Scott,  and  used  by  the  author's 
kind  permission. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IMPERSONATION 

By  "impersonation"  we  mean  the  art  of  assuming  for  the 
time  being  the  role  of  some  character  in  a  story  or  a  play. 
We  "play  the  part,"  we  assume  the  carriage,  the  gestures, 
the  quality  of  voice  belonging  to  the  character. 

How  do  we  acquire  this  art  ?  First:  We  study  the  part  care- 
fully till  we  are  sure  we  understand  it.  Second:  We  visualize 
the  scenes,  and  live  them  over  again  in  our  own  imagination. 
Third:  We  begin  to  speak  the  lines.  We  try  different  inflec- 
tions, different  gestures  which  suggest  themselves  to  us  through 
our  own  experiences  and  our  observation  of  characters  in  real 
life  which  are  similar  to  those  of  the  character  we  are  depict- 
ing. This  careful  observation  of  the  mannerisms  and  eccen- 
tricities of  real  people  aids  very  materially  in  interpretation. 
Finally:  We  decide  on  the  gestures  and  inflections  which  seem 
to  us  to  most  nearly  interpret  the  part,  and  these  we  practice 
over  and  over  again  until  they  become  a  part  of  our  very  being, 
then  we  are  ready  to  "play  the  part" 

PRACTICE  SELECTION 
Merchant  of  Venice 

Enter  old  Gobbo,  with  a  basket. 

Gobbo. — Master  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the  way  to 
master  Jew's? 

Launcelot  (Aside). — O  heavens,  this  my  true-begotten  father!  who, 
being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel-blind,  knows  me  not:  I  will 
try  confusions  with  him. 

Gobbo. — Master  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the  way  to 
master  Jew's? 

654 


IMPERSONATION  655 

Launcelot. — Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next  turning,  but,  at 
the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left;  marry,  at  the  very  next  turning, 
turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gobbo. — By  God's  sonties,  'twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can  you  tell 
me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with  him,  dwell  with  him  or  no? 

Launcelot. — Talk  you  of  young  Master  Launcelot?  (Aside.)  Mark 
me  now;  now  will  I  raise  the  waters.  Talk  you  of  young  Master 
Launcelot  ? 

Gobbo. — No  Master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son :  his  father,  though  I 
say't,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man,  and,  God  be  thank'd,  well  to 
live. 

Launcelot. — Well,  let  his  father  be  what  a  will,  we  talk  of  young 
Master  Launcelot. 

Gobbo. — Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Launcelot. — But,  I  pray  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  beseech  you,  talk 
you  of  young  Master  Launcelot? 

Gobbo. — Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  mastership. 

Launcelot. — Ergo,  Master  Launcelot.  Talk  not  of  Master  Launcelot, 
father;  for  the  young  gentleman — according  to  Fates,  and  Destinies, 
and  such  odd  saying,  the  Sisters  Three,  and  such  branches  of  learning 
— is,  indeed,  deceas'd;  or,  as  you  would  say  in  plain  terms,  gone  to 
heaven. 

Gobbo. — Marry,  God  forbid !  the  boy  was  the  very  staff  of  my  age, 
my  very  prop. 

Launcelot  (Aside). — Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel  or  a  hovelpost,  a  staff 
or  a  prop? — Do  you  know  me,  father? 

Gobbo. — Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young  gentleman:  but,  I 
pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy^God  rest  his  soul ! — alive  or  dead? 

Launcelot. — Do  you  not  know  me,  father? 

Gobbo. — Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind ;  I  know  you  not. 

Launcelot. — Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might  fail  of  the 
knowing  me:  it  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old 
man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son :  give  me  your  blessing.  Truth 
will  come  to  light;  murder  cannot  be  hid  long, — a  man's  son  may;  but, 
in  the  end,  truth  will  out. 

Gobbo. — Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up:  I  am  sure  you  are  not  Launcelot, 
my  boy. 

Launcelot. — Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but  give 
me  your  blessing :  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that  is, 
your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gobbo. — I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 


656  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Launcelot. — I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that:  but  I  am  Launce- 
lot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and  I  am  sure  Margery  your  wife  is  my  mother. 

Gobbo. — Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed:  I'll  be  sworn,  if  thou  be 
Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood.  Lord,  worship'd  might 
he  be!  What  a  beard  hast  thou  got!  thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy 
chin  than  Dobbin,  my  fill-horse,  has  on  his  tail. 

Launcelot. — It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows  backward: 
I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  of  his  tail  than  I  have  on  my  face,  when 
I  last  saw  him. 

Gobbo. — Lord,  how  art  thou  chang'd  I  How  dost  thou  and  thy  mas- 
ter agree?    I  have  brought  him  a  present.    How  'gree  you  now? 

Launcelot. — Well,  well ;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have  set  up  my 
rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run  some  ground.  My 
master's  a  very  Jew:  give  him  a  present  1  give  him  a  halter:  I  am 
f amish'd  in  his  service ;  you  may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs. 
Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come :  give  me  your  present  to  one  Master 
Bassanio,  who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries :  if  I  serve  not  him,  I 
will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any  ground. — O  rare  fortune!  here  comes 
the  man : — to  him,  father,  for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

—Act  II,  Scene  II,  Lines  29-104. 

HAMLET'S  DECLARATION  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

Hamlet.    What  ho !    Horatio ! 

Horatio.    Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 

Hamlet.    Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 

As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal. 
Horatio.    O,  my  dear  lord, — 
Hamlet.  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter; 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee 

That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  good  spirits, 

To  feed  and  clothe  thee?    Why  should  the  poor  be  flatter'd? 

No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp, 

And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee 

Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou  hear? 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice 

And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 

Hath  sealed  thee  for  herself ;  for  thou  hast  been 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing, 

A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks :  and  blest  are  those 


IMPERSONATION  657 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  commingled 
That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  Fortune's  finger 
To  sound  what  stop  she  pleases.     Give  me  that  man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
As  I  do  thee. 

— From  Act  III,  Scene  2. 

OTHELLO'S  APOLOGY 

[The  speech  calls  for  great  dignity,  ease,  and  power,  in  both  speech  and  manner.] 

Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true ;  true,  I  have  married  her : 
.  The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field, 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle, 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself.    Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love ;  what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, — 
For  such  proceeding  I  am  charged  withal, — 
I  won  his  daughter. 

Her  father  loved  me;  oft  invited  me; 

Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 

From  year  to  year, — the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 

That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 

To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it: 

Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 


658  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 
And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence 
And  portance  in  my  travels'  history: 

This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline : 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse :  which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively:  I  did  consent, 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange, 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  she  thank'd  me, 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I  spake: 
She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd; 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used. 

THE  SEVEN  AGES 

[This  is  a  succession  of  purely  imaginative  ideas  which  the  voice  should  touch 
lightly.  In  this  speech  one  meets  always  the  question  of  impersonation :  shall  the 
mewling  infant,  the  whining  schoolboy,  the  sighing  lover  and  the  rest  be  imitated 
by  the  reader?  It  is  in  better  taste  not  to  impersonate  these  seven  characters 
beyond  certain  almost  imperceptible  hints  which  the  gayety  of  Jaques's  mind  might 
naturally  throw  off.] 

All  the  world's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 


IMPERSONATION  659 

They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances ; 

And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 

His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant, 

Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms : 

And  then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel 

And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 

Unwillingly  to  school.    And  then  the  lover, 

Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 

Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then  a  soldier, 

Full  of  strange  oaths  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 

Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 

Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then  the  justice, 

In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 

With  eyes  severe  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 

And  so  he  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon, 

With  spectacles  on  nose  and  pouch  on  side ; 

His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 

For  his  shrunk  shank;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 

And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 

Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion, 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

—"As  You  Like  it,"  Act  II,  Scene  7. 

SOLITUDE  PREFERRED  TO  COURT  LIFE 

Duke  S.     Now,  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile, 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam. 
The  season's  difference,  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bite  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say 
'Tis  no  flattery;  these  are  counselors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 


660 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 

Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 

Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head; 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

I  would  not  change  it. 

Amiens.     Happy  is  your  grace, 

That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 


Duke  S.    Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison? 

And  yet  it  irks  me  the  poor  dappled  fools, 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, 
Should  in  their  own  confines  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

—"As  You  Like  It,' 


Act  II. 


THE  POTION  SCENE 
Scene:    Juliet's  Chamber 

(Enter  Juliet  and  Nurse,  who  bears  wedding  garments.) 

Juliet  (looking  at  garments). 

Ay,  those  attires  are  best;  but,  gentle  nurse, 
I  pray  thee,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  knowest,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin. 
(Enter  Lady  Capulet.) 

Lady  Capulet. 

What  are  you  busy,  ho  ?  need  you  my  help  ? 

Juliet. 

No,  madam ;  we  have  cull'd  such  necessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  have  your  hands  full  all, 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 


IMPERSONATION  661 

Lady  Capulet  (crossing  and  kissing  Juliet  on  the  forehead). 
Good  night; 

Get  thee  to  bed  and  rest,  for  thou  hast  need. 
(Exit  Lady  Capulet  with  nurse.) 
Juliet  (looking  after  them). 

Farewell !    God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 

I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 

That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 

I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me.     (Runs  to  R.) 

Nurse!     What  should  she  do  there? 

My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. 

Come,  vial.     (Takes  vial  from  bosom.) 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all? 

Shall  I  be  married  then  to-morrow  morning? 

No,  no !  (draws  dagger)  this  shall  forbid  it. 
(Lays  dagger  on  table.) 

Lie  you  there.     (To  vial.) 

What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 

Subtly  hath  ministered  to  have  me  dead, 

Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonored 

Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo? 

I  fear  it  is ;  and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not, 

For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man. 
(Puts  vial  in  bosom.) 

How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 

I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 

Come  to  redeem  me?  there's  a  fearful  point! 

Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault, 

To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  in, 

And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes  ? 

Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 

The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 

Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, — 

As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle, 

Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 

Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  packed; 

Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 

Lies  festering  in  his  shroud;  where  as  they  say, 

At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort;  .  .  . 

O,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 

Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears? 


662  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
O,  look!  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  .  .  . 

Stay,  Tybalt,  stay!— 
Romeo,  I  come !     (Drawing  out  vial — then  cork.) 
This  do  I  drink  to  thee. 
(Throws  away  vial.    She  is  overcome  and  sinks  to  the  floor.) 

—From  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Act  IV,  Scene  3. 
BANISHMENT  SCENE 

SCENE  III,  A  ROOM  IN  THE  PALACE 

(Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind.) 

Cel.  Why,  cousin;  why  Rosalind; — Cupid  have  mercy; — Not  a 
word? 

Ros.    Not  one  to  throw  to  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast  away  upon  curs, 
throw  some  of  them  at  me ;  come,  lame  me  with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up ;  when  the  one  should  be 
lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad  without  any. 

Cel.    But  is  all  this  for  your  father? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  for  my  father's  child:  O,  how  full  of  briars 
is  this  working-day  world ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burrs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in  holiday  fool- 
ery; if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our  very  coats  will  catch 
them. 

Ros.     I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat;  these  burrs  are  in  my  heart. 

Cel.    Hem  them  away. 

Ros.     I  would  try;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have  him. 

Cel.     Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.     O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than  myself. 

Cel.  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so  strong 
a  liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's  youngest  son? 

Ros.     The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love  his  son  dearly? 
By  this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his 
father  dearly;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 


IMPERSONATION  663 

Ros.     No  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cel.     Why  should  I  not ?     Doth  he  not  deserve  well? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love  him,  because  I  do : 
Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Cel.    With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

(Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords.) 

Duke  F.  Mistress,  despatch  you  with  your  safest  haste,  and  get  you 
from  our  Court.  • 

Ros.    Me,  uncle? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin,  within  these  ten  days  if  thou  be'st  found  so 
near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles,  thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault 
bear  with  me:  if  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence,  or  have  acquaintance 
with  mine  own  desires ;  if  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic  (as  I 
do  trust  I  am  not),  then,  dear  uncle,  never  so  much  as  in  a  thought 
unborn,  did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors,  if  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
they  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself:  let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust 
thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor :  tell  me,  whereon 
the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.     Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter,  there's  enough. 

Ros.  So  was  I,  when  your  highness  took  his  dukedom ;  so  was  I, 
when  your  highness  banish'd  him :  treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord :  or, 
if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends,  what's  that  to  me?  my  father 
was  no  traitor:  then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much,  to  think 
my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.    Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Aye,  Celia;  we  stay'd  here  for  your  sake.  Else  had  she 
with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.     I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay,  it  was  your  pleasure, 
and  your  own  remorse;  I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her,  but 
now  I  know  her;  if  she  be  a  traitor,   so  am  I :   we  still  have  slept 
together;  rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 
Duke  F.     She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her  smoothness, 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 
Speak  to  the  people  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 


664  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

When  she  is  gone :  then  open  not  thy  lips ; 

Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 

Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ;  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.    Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 
Duke  F.   You  are  a  fool : — You,  niece,  provide  yourself ; 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  my  honor, 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

(Exeunt  Duke  Frederick  and  Lords.) 

Cel.    O  my  poor  Rosalind:  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

Wilt  thou  change  fathers?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.     I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin, 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me  his  daughter? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.    No?  hath  not?    Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teaches  thee  that  thou  and  I  art  one: 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  charge  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out; 
For  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  can'st,  I'll  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.    Why,  whither  shall  we  go? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle. 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  so  far? 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.     I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 

And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face ; 
The  like  do  you ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  in  all  points  like  a  man? 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand ;  and  in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will, 


IMPERSONATION  665 

We'll  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside; 

As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 

That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 
Cel.    What  shall  I  call  thee  when  thou  art  a  man? 
Ros.    I'll  have  no  other  worse  than  Jove's  own  page, 

And  therefore,  look  you,  call  me  Ganymede. 

But  what  will  you  be  call'd? 
Cel.     Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state: 

No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 
Ros.     But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assayed  to  steal 

The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court? 

Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel? 
Cel.    He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me; 

Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him :     Let's  away 

And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together; 

Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 

To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 

After  my  flight :     Now  go  we  in  content, 

To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment. 

—From  "As  You  Like  It,"  Act  I. 


CORYDON 

By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
scene,  a  road-side  in  arcady 

Shepherd.  Good  sir,  have  you  seen  pass  this  way 

A  mischief  straight  from  market-day? 

You'd  know  her  at  a  glance,  I  think; 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  lips  are  pink; 

She  has  a  way  of  looking  back 

Over  her  shoulder,  and  alack! 

Who  gets  that  look  one  time,  good  sir, 

Has  naught  to  do  but  follow. 
Pilgrim.      I  have  not  seen  this  maid  methinks, 

Though  she  that  passed  had  lips  like  pinks. 
Shepherd.    Or  like  two  strawberries  made  one 

By  some  sly  trick  of  dew  and  sun. 
Pilgrim.    A  poet. 


666 


DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 


Shepherd.    Nay,  a  simple  swain 

That  tends  his  flocks  on  yonder  plain 
Naught  else  I  swear  by  book  and  bell. 
But  she  that  passed  you  marked  her  well 
Was  she  not  smooth  as  any  be 
That  dwells  here — in  Arcady? 

Pilgrim.     Her  skin  was  the  satin  bark  of  birches. 

Shepherd.    Light  or  dark? 

Pilgrim.     Quite  dark. 

Shepherd.   Then  'twas  not  she. 

Pilgrim.     The  peaches  side 

That  next  the  sun  is  not  so  dyed 
As  was  her  cheek.    Her  hair  hung  down 
Like  summer  twilight  falling  brown ; 
And  when  the  breeze  swept  by,  I  wist 
Her  face  was  in  a  somber  twist. 

Shepherd.   No  that  is  not  the  maid  I  seek; 

Her  hair  lies  gold  against  her  cheek, 
Her  yellow  tresses  take  the  morn, 
Like  silken  tassels  of  the  corn, 
And  yet  brown-locks  are  far  from  bad. 

Pilgrim.     Now  I  bethink  me  this  one  had 
A  figure  like  the  willow  tree 
Which,  slight  and  supple,  wondrously 
Inclines  to  droop  with  pensive  grace, 
And  still  retain  its  proper  place. 
A  foot  so  arched  and  very  small 
The  marvel  was  she  walked  at  all ; 
Her  hand  in  sooth,  I  lack  for  words — 
Her  hand,  five  slender  snow-white  birds, 
Her  voice,  tho'  she  but  said  "God  Speed"- 
Was  melody  blown  through  a  reed ; 
The  girl  Pan  changed  into  a  pipe 
Had  not  a  note  so  full  and  rife. 
And  then  her  eye — my  lad,  her  eye! 
Discreet,  inviting,  candid,  shy, 
An  outward  ice,  an  inward  fire, 
And  lashes  to  the  heart's  desire. 
Soft  fringes  blacker  than  the  sloe — 
Shepherd.    Good  sir,  which  way  did  this  one  go? 


IMPERSONATION  667 


Pilgrim.      So  he  is  off!     The  silly  youth 

Knoweth  not  love  in  sober  sooth, 

He  loves — thus  lads  at  first  are  blind — 

No  woman,  only  womankind. 

I  needs  must  laugh,  for  by  the  mass 

No  maid  at  all  did  this  way  pass. 


PART  FOUR 

Oratoric  Reading  and  the  Art  of  Public  Speech 

Discussion  of  forceful  speech  in  making  history.  Value  of  force- 
ful speech.    Practice  selections. 

HAMLET'S  INSTRUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYERS 

Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, — trippingly 
on  the  tongue ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  our  players  do,  I  had 
as  lief  the  town-crier  spake  my  lines.  Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much 
with  your  hand,  thus,  but  use  all  gently;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tem- 
pest, and,  as  I  may  say,  whirlwind  of  your  passion,  you  must  acquire 
and  beget  a  temperance,  that  may  give  it  smoothness.  Oh !  it  offends 
me  to  the  soul  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion 
to  tatters, — to  very  rags, — to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings ;  who,  for 
the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplicable  dumb  show  and 
noise.  I  would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant; 
it  out-herods  Herod.    Pray  you  avoid  it. — Shakespeare. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ORATORIC  READING  AND  THE  ART  OF  PUBLIC  SPEECH 

Upon  this  important  subject  of  public  speaking,  and  the  in- 
terpretation of  the  addresses  made  by  others,  great  men  have 
thus  expressed  themselves:.  Dr.  Charles  W.  Eliot,  formerly 
President  of  Harvard  University,  says  :  "Have  we  not  all  seen, 
in  recent  years,  that  leading  men  of  business  have  a  great  need 
of  a  highly  trained  power  of  clear  and  convincing  expression  ? 
Business  men  seem  to  me  to  need,  in  speech  and  writing,  all 
the  Roman  terseness  and  the  French  clearness.  That  one  at- 
tainment is  sufficient  reward  for  the  whole  long  course  of 
twelve  years  spent  in  liberal  study."  Abraham  Lincoln  like- 
wise said :  "Extemporaneous  speaking  should  be  practiced  and 
cultivated.  It  is  the  lawyer's  avenue  to  the  public.  However 
able  and  faithful  he  may  be  in  other  respects,  people  are  slow 
to  bring  him  business  if  he  can  not  make  a  speech." 

Every  thinker  knows  what  a  vital  part  eloquence  plays  in 
national  as  well  as  individual  welfare.  If  at  first  thought 
effective  speaking  seems  a  simple  thing  and  a  superficial  part 
of  education,  on  mature  thought  and  consideration  it  will  be 
found  to  be  one  of  the  most  complex,  vital  and  difficult  prob- 
lems that  education  has  to  meet.  And  yet,  notwithstanding 
this  complexity  of  the  problem,  the  teacher  is  cheered  by  the 
delightful  assurance  of  giving  the  student  a  consciousness  of 
his  latent  talents  and  the  ability  to  reveal  and  make  use  of 
them  for  the  proper  influencing  of  his  fellow  men. 

There  is  a  belief  fairly  commonly  held  that  only  a  limited 
few  need  study  the  art  of  public  speaking.  Never  was  there 
a  greater  error  or  a  more  fatal  mistake — especially  in  a  repub- 

671 


672  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

lie  like  ours,  where  every  man  should  be  vitally  interested  in 
public  affairs.  No  single  citizen  can  afford  not  to  be  able  to 
stand  before  his  fellows  and  clearly,  pleasingly  and  convinc- 
ingly present  his  ideas  upon  any  subject  of  local,  state,  or 
national  importance.  It  is  no  more  an  ornamental  accomplish- 
ment than  is  grammar,  penmanship  or  simple  arithmetic.  It 
should  be  as  universal  as  "the  three  r's."  The  hints  and  selec- 
tions that  follow  are  carefully  chosen  to  incite  every  good  cit- 
izen to  the  acquirement  of  this  useful  and  practical  aid  for  his 
own  benefit  as  well  as  that  of  his  fellows.  All  the  lessons  and 
analyses  that  have  gone  before  in  these  pages  will  materially 
aid  in  the  elucidation  of  these  brief  lessons. 

The  basis  for  development  in  Effective  Speaking  rests  upon 
one's  bodily,  emotional  and  mental  agencies  of  expression,  and 
a  knowledge  of  their  respective  importance  and  efficient  use. 
That  which  counts  most  for  development  is  conscientious  prac- 
tice ;  without  which,  progress  is  impossible. 

There  are  three  definite  means  of  communicating  thought 
and  feeling  to  others :  (a)  Pantomime:  face,  hands,  body;  (b) 
Vocal :  tone  sound ;  (c)  Verbal :  words,  which  are  conventional 
symbols  manifesting  mental  and  emotional  states. 

The  problem,  then,  is  to  obtain  a  harmonious  coordination  of 
these  three  languages.  In  other  words,  the  content  of  the  word 
when  spoken  should  be  reflected  in  the  tone  and  in  the  body. 
Thus  speech  becomes  effective  merely  because  it  receives  its 
just  and  fair  consideration. 

With  this  general  understanding  let  us  take  up  and  master 
the  successive  steps  which  ultimately  lead  to  a  realization  of 
the  desired  end. 

The  first  important  essential  of  effective  speaking  is  the 
Spirit  of  Directness.  By  this  is  meant  natural,  unaffected 
speech.  Nothing  can  be  more  important  than  that  the  person 
speaking  use  in  public  address  the  ordinary  elements  of  Con- 
versation. 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    673 

Hence,  the  first  step  is  practice  in  natural  speaking.  Com- 
mit to  memory  Hamlet's  Instructions  to  the  Players  given  on 
a  preceding  page.  Do  this  not  line  by  line,  but  the  entire  se- 
lection as  a  whole.  First:  Read  it  through  silently  three  times 
to  familiarize  yourself  with  the  subject-matter.  Second: 
Read  it  aloud  at  least  five  times.  Third:  Speak  it  conversa- 
tionally at  least  five  times  from  memory.  In  this  practice 
always  be  intensely  conscious  that  you  are  addressing  an  indi- 
vidual and  not  an  audience. 

Now  take  any  of  the  prose  or  poetic  selections  from  the 
earlier  pages  of  this  book,  memorize  them,  after  studying 
them  as  the  instructions  require,  and  speak  them  directly  and 
naturally,  in  the  ordinary  conversational  style. 

Sufficient  practice  in  this  is  the  necessary  preparation  for  the 
next  step,  viz.,  the  acquiring  of  a  natural  elevated  conversa- 
tional style,  which  is  merely  another  name  for  the  higher  type 
of  public  speaking. 

Commit  all,  or  a  part,  of  the  following  selections,  keeping  in 
mind  that  in  speaking  them  you  are  addressing  a  group  of 
people. 

THE  GETTYSBURG  ADDRESS 
By  Abraham  Lincoln 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  upon  this 
continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  prop- 
osition that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great 
Civil  War,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation,  so  conceived  and 
so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of 
that  war.  We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  the  final  resting 
place  of  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live. 

It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a 
larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hal- 
low this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here, 
have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world 
will  little  note,  nor  long  remember,  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never 
forget  what  they  did  here. 


674  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be 
here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us,  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  the  cause  for  which  they 
gave  their  last  full  measure  of  devotion;  that  we  here  highly  resolve 
that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that  the  Union  shall,  under 
God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  the  government  of  the  peo- 
ple, by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

By  this  time  you  should  have  mastered  Ordinary  Conversa- 
tional Style ;  Elevated  Conversational  Style ;  and  Abandon  and 
Flexibility  of  Speech.  The  next  consideration  is  the  impor- 
tance of  Clearness.  Clearness  in  speech  means  making  prom- 
inent central  words  and  subordinating  unimportant  words,  or 
phrases.  In  other  words,  the  logical  sequence  of  thought  must 
be  clearly  shown.  This  is  brought  about  by  a  variety  of  in- 
flections, changes  of  pitch,  pause,  etc.  Clearness  in  speech  is 
dependent  upon  clearness  of  Thinking. 

It  is  important  now  to  give  full  consideration  to  the  subject 
of  Emphasis.  There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  emphasizing 
your  thought.  The  most  common  way  is  by  merely  increas- 
ing the  stress  of  voice  upon  a  word.  This,  however,  is  the 
most  undignified  form  of  emphasis.  It  is  common  to  ranters 
and  "soap-box"  orators  and  is  one  mark  of  an  undisciplined 
and  uncultured  man.  Remember  that  loudness  is  a  purely 
physical  element,  and  does  not  manifest  thought.  Such  em- 
phasis is  an  appeal  to  the  brute  instinct,  and  is  only  expressive 
of  the  lower  emotions.  But  Inflection,  Changes  of  Pitch, 
Pause,  Movement  and  Tone-Color — as  have  been  fully  ex- 
plained in  preceding  pages — all  appeal  to  the  exalted  nature 
of  man. 

In  proportion  to  the  nobleness  of  an  emotion  or  thought, 
we  find  a  tendency  to  accentuate  these  above-named  elements. 
Such  methods  of  emphasis  are  appropriate  to  the  most  disci- 
plined and  cultured  man.  More  than  that,  they  are  the  surest 
evidence  of  a  great  personality. 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH   675 

Commit,  then  make  clear  to  the  hearer,  the  vital  thought  in 
the  following: 

He  have  arbitrary  power!  My  lords,  the  East  India  Company  have 
not  arbitrary  power  to  give  him;  the  King  has  no  arbitrary  power  to 
give  him;  your  Lordships  have  not;  nor  the  Commons;  nor  the  whole 
legislature.  We  have  no  arbitrary  power  to  give,  because  arbitrary 
power  is  a  thing  which  neither  any  man  can  hold  nor  any  man  can  give. 
No  man  can  lawfully  govern  himself  according  to  his  own  will,  much 
less  can  one  person  be  governed  by  the  will  of  another.  We  are  all 
born  in  subjection,  all  born  equally,  high  and  low,  governors  and  gov- 
erned, in  subjection  to  one  great,  immutable,  preexistent  law,  prior  to 
all  our  devices,  and  prior  to  all  our  contrivances,  paramount  to  all  our 
ideas  and  all  our  sensations,  antecedent  to  our  very  existence,  by  which 
we  are  knit  and  connected  in  the  eternal  frame  of  the  universe,  out  of 
which  we  cannot  stir. 

Extract  from  President  Wilson's  Inaugural  Address : 

We  shall  deal  with  our  economic  system  as  it  is  and  as  it  may  be 
modified,  not  as  it  might  be  if  we  had  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  to  write 
upon ;  and  step  by  step  we  shall  make  it  what  it  should  be,  in  the  spirit 
of  those  who  question  their  own  wisdom  and  seek  counsel  and  knowl- 
edge, not  shallow  self-satisfaction  or  the  excitement  of  excursions 
whither  they  cannot  tell.  Justice,  and  only  justice,  shall  always  be  our 
motto. 

And  yet  it  will  be  no  cool  process  of  mere  science.  The  nation  has 
been  deeply  stirred,  stirred  by  a  solemn  passion,  stirred  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  wrong,  of  ideals  lost,  of  government  too  often  debauched  and 
made  an  instrument  of  evil. 

The  feelings  with  which  we  face  this  new  age  of  right  and  opportu- 
nity sweep  across  our  heartstrings  like  some  air  out  of  God's  own  pres- 
ence, where  justice  and  mercy  are  reconciled  and  the  judge  and  the 
brother  are  one. 

We  know  our  task  to  be  no  mere  task  of  politics,  but  a  task  which 
shall  search  us  through  and  through,  whether  we  be  able  to  understand 
our  time  and  the  need  of  our  people,  whether  we  be  indeed  their  spokes- 
men and  interpreters,  whether  we  have  the  pure  heart  to  comprehend 
and  the  rectified  will  to  choose  our  high  course  of  action.  This  is  not 
a  day  of  triumph;  it  is  a  day  of  dedication.  Here  muster,  not  the 
forces  of  party,  but  the  forces  of  humanity.    Men's  hearts  wait  upon 


676  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

us;  men's  lives  hang  in  the  balance;  men's  hopes  call  upon  us  to  say 
what  we  will  do. 

Who  shall  live  up  to  the  great  trust?    Who  dares  fail  to  try? 

I  summon  all  honest  men,  all  patriotic,  all  forward-looking  tmfi,  to 
my  side. 

God  helping  me,  I  will  not  fail  them,  if  they  will  but  counsel  and 
sustain  me ! 

SELECTIONS  FOR  PART  FOUR 

To  gain  control  over  public  speech,  to  learn  to  express  himself  well 
on  his  feet,  the  speaker  must  both  be  constantly  watchful  over  his 
every-day  conversation  and  exercise  himself  much  in  writing.  Only  so 
can  he  make  his  tongue  obey  his  will. — Genung. 


If  then  the  power  of  speech  is  a  gift  as  great  as  any  that  can  be 
named, — if  the  origin  of  language  is  by  many  philosophers  even  con- 
sidered to  be  nothing  short  of  divine, — if  by  means  of  words  the  se- 
crets of  the  heart  are  brought  to  light,  pain  of  soul  is  relieved,  hidden 
grief  is  carried  off,  sympathy  conveyed,  counsel  imparted,  experience 
recorded,  and  wisdom  perpetuated, — if  by  great  authors  the  many  are 
drawn  up  into  unity,  national  character  is  fixed,  a  people  speaks,  the 
past  and  the  future,  the  East  and  the  West  are  brought  into  commu- 
nication with  each  other, — if  such  men  are,  in  a  word,  the  spokesmen 
and  prophets  of  the  human  family, — it  will  not  answer  to  make  light  of 
Literature  or  to  neglect  its  study ;  rather  we  may  be  sure  that,  in  pro- 
portion as  we  master  it  in  whatever  language,  and  imbibe  its  spirit,  we 
shall  ourselves  become  in  our  own  measure  the  ministers  of  like  ben- 
efits to  others,  be  they  many  or  few,  be  they  in  the  obscurer  or  the 
more  distinguished  walks  of  life, — who  are  united  to  us  by  social  ties, 
and  are  within  the  sphere  of  our  personal  influence. —  Cardinal 
Newman. 

A  VISION  RISES 
By  Robert  G.  Ingersoll 

A  vision  of  the  future  rises  ...  I  see  a  world  where  thrones  have 
crumbled  and  where  kings  are  dust,  the  aristocracy  of  idleness  has  per- 
ished from  the  earth. 

I  see  a  world  without  a  slave,  man  at  last  is  free.     Nature's  forces 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH     677 

have  by  science  been  enslaved,  lightning  and  light,  wind  and  wave, 
frost  and  flame,  and  all  the  secret  subtle  powers  of  the  earth  and  air 
are  the  tireless  toilers  for  the  human  race. 

I  see  a  world  at  peace,  adorned  with  every  form  of  art,  with  music's 
myriad  voices  thrilled,  while  lips  are  rich  with  words  of  love  and  truth ; 
a  world  in  which  no  exile  sighs,  no  prisoner  mourns ;  a  world  on 
which  the  gibbet's  shadow  does  not  fall;  a  world  where  labor  reaps  its 
full  reward,  where  work  and  worth  go  hand  in  hand,  where  the  poor 
girl,  trying  to  win  bread  with  a  needle — the  needle  that  has  been  called 
"the  asp  for  the  breast  of  the  poor" — is  not  driven  to  the  desperate 
choice  of  crime  or  death  or  suicide  or  shame. 

I  see  a  world  without  the  beggar's  outstretche'd  palm,  the  miser's 
heartless,  stony  stare,  the  piteous  wail  of  want,  the  livid  lips  of  lies,  the 
cruel  eyes  of  scorn. 

I  see  a  race  without  disease  of  flesh  or  brain — shapely  and  fair,  mar- 
ried harmony  of  form  and  function,  and  as  I  look,  life  lengthens,  joy 
deepens,  love  canopies  the  earth ;  and  over  all  in  the  great  dome  shines 
the  eternal  star  of  human  hope. 

CREED  OF  AMERICANISM 

I  have  faith  that  this  government  of  ours  was  divinely  ordained  to 
disclose  whether  men  are  by  nature  fitted  or  can  by  education  be  made 
fit  for  self-government;  to  teach  Jew  and  Greek,  bondman  and  free, 
alike,  the  essential  equality  of  all  men  before  the  law  and  to  be  tender 
and  true  to  humanity  everywhere  and  under  all  circumstances;  to 
reveal  that  service  is  the  highest  reward  of  life.  .  .  . 

I  believe  that  the  world,  now  advancing  and  now  retreating,  is  never- 
theless moving  forward  to  a  far-off  divine  event  wherein  the  tongues 
of  Babel  will  again  be  blended  in  the  language  of  a  common  brother- 
hood; and  I  believe  that  I  can  reach  the  highest  ideal  of  my  tradition 
and  my  lineage  as  an  American — as  a  man,  as  a  citizen  and  as  a  public 
official — when  I  judge  my  fellowmen  without  malice  and  with  charity, 
when  I  worry  more  about  my  own  motives  and  conduct  and  less  about 
the  motives  and  conduct  of  others.  The  time  I  am  liable  to  be  wholly 
wrong  is  when  I  know  that  I  am  absolutely  right.  .  .  . 

I  believe  there  is  no  finer  form  of  government  than  the  one  under 
which  we  live  and  that  I  ought  to  be  willing  to  live  or  to  die,  as  God 
decrees,  that  it  may  not  perish  from  off  the  earth  through  treachery 
within  or  through  assault  without;  and  I  believe  that  though  my  first 
right  is  to  be  a  partisan,  that  my  first  duty,  when  the  only  principles 


678  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

on  which  free  government  can  rest  are  being  strained,  is  to  be  a  patriot 
and  to  follow  in  a  wilderness  of  words  that  clear  call  which  bids  me 
guard  and  defend  the  ark  of  our  national  covenant. —  From  "Vice- 
President  Marshall's  Inaugural  Address." 

WHAT  IS  OUR  COUNTRY 
By  Governor  Newton  Booth 
(Extract  from  speech  delivered  at  Sacramento,  Calif.,  August  14, 1862.) 
What  is  our  country?  Not  alone  the  land  and  the  sea,  the  lakes  and 
rivers,  and  valleys  and  mountains;  not  alone  the  people,  their  customs 
and  laws ;  not  alone  the  memories  of  the  past,  the  hopes  of  the  future : 
it  is  something  more  than  all  these  combined.  It  is  a  divine  abstrac- 
tion. You  cannot  tell  what  it  is;  but  let  its  flag  rustle  above  your 
head,  you  feel  its  living  presence  in  your  hearts.  They  tell  us  that  our 
country  must  die;  that  the  sun  and  the  stars  will  look  down  upon  the 
great  republic  no  more;  that  already  the  black  eagles  of  despotism  are 
gathering  in  our  political  sky;  that,  even  now,  kings  and  emperors  are 
casting  lots  for  the  garments  of  our  national  glory.  It  shall  not  be! 
Not  yet,  not  yet,  shall  the  nations  lay  the  bleeding  corpse  of  our  coun- 
try in  the  tomb.  If  they  could,  angels  would  roll  the  stone  from  the 
mouth  of  the  sepulcher.  It  would  burst  the  casements  of  the  grave  and 
come  forth  a  living  presence,  "redeemed,  regenerated,  disenthralled." 
Not  yet,  not  yet  shall  the  republic  die !  The  heavens  are  not  darkened, 
the  stones  are  not  rent!  It  shall  live,  the  incarnation  of  freedom;  it 
shall  live,  the  embodiment  of  the  power  and  majesty  of  the  people. 
Baptized  anew,  it  shall  stand  a  thousand  years  to  come,  the  Colossus 
of  the  nations, — its  feet  upon  the.  continents,  its  scepter  over  the  seas, 
its  forehead  among  the  stars! — From  "Notable  Speeches  by  Notable 
Speakers  of  the  Greater  West,"  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers, 
The  Harr  Wagner  Company,  San  Francisco. 

PIONEER  CELEBRATION  SPEECH 

By  Frederick  Palmer  Tracey 

(Delivered  before  the  society  of  California,  Pioneers,  September  9,1858, 
at  their  celebration  of  the  eighth  anniversary  of  the  admission  of  the 
state  into  the  Union.) 

Mr.  President,  and  Members  of  the  Society  of  California  Pioneers: 
The  great  Napoleon  said,  "I  will  review  at  Cherbourg  the  marvels  of 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    679 

Egypt,"  and  that  saying,  just  now  inscribed  upon  the  pedestal  of  his 
statue  standing  amidst  the  new  and  massive  fortifications  of  Cher- 
bourg, startles  England  as  a  menace  of  war.  England  may  rest  in 
quiet.  There  will  be  no  attempt  to  renew  the  marvels  of  Bonaparte's 
Egyptian  campaign.  But  both  Napoleons  may  have  dreamed  that  in 
the  gigantic  moles  of  Cherbourg  they  might  rival  the  grandeur  and 
strength  of  the  Pyramids,  and  in  its  sculptures  the  glorious  beauty  of 
Memnon  and  the  Sphinx.  And,  truly,  the  vast  dead  marvels  of  Egypt's 
architecture  may  be  rivaled.  Other  tombs  and  temples  may  be  hewn 
in  the  rocks;  other  columns  and  obelisks  may  rise  in  beauty;  other 
sphinxes  may  in  silence  propose  their  eternal  riddles  to  other  lands ;  and 
other  pyramids  may  lift  their  mountain  forms  over  the  hushed  plains 
crouching  at  their  feet.  Greater  marvels  even  than  Egypt  ever  saw 
may  be  born  of  necessity  and  science,  and  not  Cherbourg  alone,  but  this 
and  other  lands  may  yet  behold  them. 

But  who,  in  any  age  or  country,  or  with  any  people,  shall  renew  the 
marvels  of  California,  and  give  to  the  world  a  second  example  of  a 
nation  so  suddenly  created,  gifted  with  the  strength  of  Hercules  in  its 
cradle, — born  in  the  purple  of  its  empire  that  shall  endure  forever?  A 
little  more  than  ten  years  ago,  California  lay  in  the  indolence  and 
silence  of  that  summer  noonday  in  which  she  had  been  basking  for 
ages.  A  few  idle  villages  slept  by  the  shores  of  her  bays ;  a  few 
squalid  ranches  dotted  the  interior  with  patches  of  wretched  cultivation. 
There  were  herds  of  cattle  in  her  valleys,  but  they  were  almost  value- 
less for  the  want  of  a  market.  There  were  churches,  but  their  chiming 
bells  woke  only  the  echoes  of  a  vast  solitude.  The  sun  ripened  only 
the  harvest  of  wild  oats  on  the  hills,  and  the  beasts  of  prey  made  their 
lairs  in  security  close  by  the  abodes  of  men.  Seldom  did  the  vaquero 
in  his  solitary  rounds  hear  the  dip  of  the  oar  upon  our  rivers.  Silence, 
deep  and  everlasting,  brooded  over  all  the  land,  and  the  lone  oaks  on 
the  hills  appeared  like  sentinels  keeping  guard  around  the  sleeping  camp 
of  nature. 

The  cession  of  the  country  to  the  United  States  by  the  treaty  of 
Guadalupe  Hidalgo,  and  the  discovery  of  gold  in  the  early  part  of  the 
year  of  1848,  changed  the  whole  scene  as  if  by  the  power  of  magic. 
As  in  the  naumachia  of  old  time,  the  dry  arena  was  instantly  converted 
into  a  great  lake  on  which  contending  navies  struggled  for  the  mastery ; 
so,  instantly  on  the  discovery  of  gold,  California  was  filled  with  people 
as  if  they  had  risen  from  the  earth.  The  port  of  San  Francisco  was 
crowded  with  vessels.  The  rivers  were  alive  with  the  multitudes  that 
made  them  their  highway,  and   din  of  commerce  broke  forever  the 


680  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

silence  of  centuries.  It  seemed  as  if  the  people  had  stolen  the  lamp  of 
Aladdin,  and  wished  for  the  creation,  not  of  palaces  merely,  but  of 
royal  cities,  and  an  empire  of  which  these  should  be  the  chief  places; 
and  at  their  wish,  the  cities  of  our  state  arose,  not  by  slow,  toilsome 
growth,  but  complete  and  princely  at  their  very  birth.  The  rattle  of  the 
shovel  and  the  pick  was  heard  in  every  mountain  gorge,  and  a  wide 
stream  of  gold  flowed  from  the  Sierra  to  the  sea.  The  plains,  rejoicing 
in  their  marriage  to  industry,  bore  fruitfully  their  yellow  harvests. 
Villages,  hamlets,  farmhouses,  schools,  and  churches  sprang  up  every- 
where; wharves  were  built,  roads  were  opened;  stage-coaches  and 
steamers  crowded  all  profitable  routes ;  lands,  houses,  and  labor  rose  to 
an  enormous  value;  and  plenty,  with  her  blessings,  crowned  the  roll- 
ing year. 

I  paint  no  exaggerated  picture  of  this  magical  change.  We  have 
seen  it  with  our  eyes ;  and  though  it  seems  like  a  dream,  so  is  it  unlike 
anything  in  the  history  of  the  world,  in  the  range  of  human  experience, 
or  in  the  field  where  imagination  is  wont  to  revel.  We  know  that  it 
is  all  true,  and  its  truth  is  its  greatest  marvel. 

Yet  it  is  not  to  be  concealed  that  we  have  reason  to  fear  that  Cali- 
fornia's future  may  not  be  as  prosperous  as  her  past.  If  free  institu- 
tions shall  be  established  here  in  the  simplicity  of  truth  and  justice; 
if  public  morality  shall  be  substituted  for  the  wild,  passionate  life  of 
our  earlier  times;  if  industry  and  frugality  shall  expel  indolence  and 
thriftlessness  from  among  us;  if  the  people  shall  be  made  to  feel  that 
California  is  their  home,  and  be  controlled  by  the  great  ambition  of 
making  it  a  home  worth  loving  and  defending;  if  we  shall  be  united 
for  the  promotion  and  protection  of  our  own  state  interests,  and  shall 
banish  from  among  us  all  influence  of  those  who  do  not  belong  to  us, — 
then  indeed  we  cannot  fail  to  secure  a  glorious  future  for  our  young 
state.  But  if  we  fail  in  the  great  duties  of  upright  men  and  patriotic 
citizens,  we  can  only  expect  to— 

"Run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  nations  ran ; 
And  die,  like  them,  of  unbelief  in  God  and  wrong  of  man." 

That  California  has  the  material  resources  to  make  her  not  merely 
one  of  the  first,  but  the  very  first,  of  the  states  of  the  Union,  no  one 
can  doubt;  but  the  fostering  care  of  the  general  government,  and  the 
exertion  of  all  the  energies  of  our  own  people  will  be  required  to  de- 
velop those  resources  and  make  our  state  what  it  is  capable  of  becom- 
ing. I  have  dreamed  of  the  time  when  that  great  highway  of  com- 
merce around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  opened  to  the  world  by  the 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    681 

Portuguese  navigators  of  the  fifteenth  century,  should  be  abandoned, 
and  long  caravans  of  merchant  ships,  treading  the  desert  ocean  that 
lies  at  our  west,  should  bring  to  our  wharves  the  merchandise  of  China 
and  the  Indies,  and  give  to  us  the  profits  of  that  vast  trade  which  has 
built  so  many  of  the  cities  of  Europe  and  of  Asia;  when  along  the 
great  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Railroad,  from  San  Francisco  to  St.  Louis, 
and  from  St.  Louis  to  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  the  transit  of  this  wealth 
of  the  world,  like  a  turbid  stream  turned  through  our  miners'  sluice- 
boxes,  should  everywhere  deposit  gold  as  it  passed.  If  California  and 
the  general  government  shall  ever  be  aroused  upon  this  subject,  and 
this  great  railway — the  mightiest  in  its  results  of  any  enterprise  ever 
projected  by  man — shall  be  completed,  a  revolution  will  be  accomplished 
in  our  state,  the  marvels  of  which  will  be  second  only  to  those  that 
accompanied  our  first  settlement  of  the  territory.  Our  population,  no 
longer  stinted  to  a  few  hundred  thousand,  will  suddenly  be  counted  by 
millions.  Every  valley  will  be  fat  with  grain,  and  the  yellow  harvest 
will  wave  on  every  hillside.  The  hamlets  will  rise  to  villages,  the  vil- 
lages to  towns,  and  the  towns  to  regal  cities.  Like  the  redwoods  of  our 
mountains,  the  masts  of  the  vessels  of  all  nations  will  be  forests  in  our 
ports,  and  the  white  sails  in  the  offing  shall  flock  together  as  white 
doves  when  they  come  home  to  their  nests.  Then,  capital  will  seek 
investment  among  us,  and  enterprise  and  industry  will  add  wealth  to 
wealth.  Then  will  the  hidden  riches  of  the  mines  be  explored,  and 
larger  and  more  secure  investments  afford  a  profit  that  now  is  hardly 
dreamed  of.  Every  resource  of  the  state  will  be  developed,  and  Cali- 
fornia will  become  the  mistress  of  the  Pacific,  rivaling  not  merely  the 
richest  commercial  states  of  our  own  confederacy,  but  the  most  power- 
ful maritime  nations  that  sit  by  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic. 

Such  California  once  was;  such  California  yet  may  be.  You,  pio- 
neers, who  meet  to-day  to  celebrate  the  eighth  anniversary  of  her  admis- 
sion as  a  state  of  the  Union, — you,  and  those  whom  you  represent,  are 
the  founders  of  this  new  commonwealth,  and  on  the  direction  you  give 
her  institutions  and  her  enterprise  her  destiny  for  good  or  evil  will 
depend. 

I  congratulate  you,  Pioneers  of  California,  on  the  proud  position  you 
occupy. 

"You  are  living,  you  are  dwelling, 

In  a  grand  and  awful  time, 
In  an  age  on  ages  telling, 

To  be  living  is  sublime.'* 

You  are  presiding  at  the  birth  of  a  nation;  you  shape  its  destinies 


682  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

and  mold  its  future  according  to  your  own  will.  Your  works  will 
speak  for  you  in  the  coming  ages.  If  you  make  California  glorious, 
you  will  be  immortal;  if  you  make  her  base  and  vile,  she  will  return 
her  shame  on  your  own  heads. 

It  was  my  lot,  in  1848,  to  witness  the  Revolution  that  overturned  the 
throne  of  France,  and  drove  Louis  Philippe  into  exile,  and  I  thought 
it  the  fortune  of  a  lifetime  to  be  present  at  the  downfall  of  a  great 
government.  But  how  much  more  is  the  blood  of  ambition  stirred  by 
the  creation  of  an  empire, — of  an  empire  that  for  centuries  to  come  is 
to  sit  the  undisputed  mistress  of  these  vast  seas  that  spread  themselves 
at  our  feetl 

Pioneers,  the  men  who  come  after  you  will  rule  only  the  hour  in 
which  they  live.  You  are  the  masters  of  the  approaching  centuries. 
They  come  bending  like  slaves  at  your  feet,  and  wait  to  know  your 
pleasure.  It  is  yours,  if  you  will,  to  fill  those  centuries  with  the  glory 
of  California  and  your  own  high  renown.  All  that  you  do  in  these 
early  plastic  times  of  the  state  will  remain  stamped  upon  her  forever, 
and  you  sit  here,  masters,  while  the  monuments  of  your  own  immortal 
fame  are  being  built. 

Pioneers  of  California,  the  eyes  of  the  world  *re  fixed  upon  this 
young  state;  they  are  fixed  upon  you.  A  great  trust  is  committed  to 
your  hands  by  the  events  that  have  made  you  pioneers.  Take  care  that 
you  discharge  that  trust  with  honor  to  yourselves,  and  so  that  Cali- 
fornia may  achieve  the  glorious  destiny  that  is  her  due.  Take  care 
that  you  so  conduct  the  youth  of  this  state,  that,  centuries  hereafter, 
your  descendants  may  say  proudly  of  their  ancestors,  "He  came  in  with 
the  pioneers." — From  "Notable  Speeches  by  Notable  Speakers  of  the 
Greater  West,"  by  the  kind  permission  of  the  publisher,  the  Harr 
Wagner  Company,  San  Francisco. 


[Frederick  Palmer  Tracy  was  a  California  pioneer,  and  attorney-at- 
law  in  San  Francisco,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Republican  party 
in  California.  He  was  an  eloquent  political  speaker  in  the  early  days 
when  his  party  was  in  a  hopeless  minority.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
California  delegation  to  the  Chicago  convention  which  nominated 
Abraham  Lincoln  for  President  of  the  United  States,  and  was  ap- 
pointed on  the  Committee  on  Platform  and  Resolutions.  He  drafted 
the  famous  platform  of  that  convention,  which  was  adopted  by  the 
committee  as  he  wrote  it,  with  only  slight  changes.  He  was  engaged 
in  the  Lincoln  campaign  to  stump  the  state  of  New  York,  and  died 
during  that  campaign,  worn  out  by  exposure  and  loss  of  sleep.] 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    683 

THE  REDWOODS 

By  W.  H.  L.  Barnes 

(Delivered  at  a  midsummer  "jinks"  of  the  Bohemian  Club   of  San 
Francisco.) 

The  possessor  of  a  name  more  ancient  than  the  crusaders  will  show 
you,  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  ancestral  trees  that  surround  his  lordly 
domain,  and  proudly  exhibit  some  gnarled  and  ugly  oak,  which  by  him 
is  associated  with  some  distant  event  in  his  own  family,  or  with  the 
history  of  the  hoary  races  of  the  brave  nation  of  which  he  forms  a 
part.  Here  his  ancestors  builded  a  castle  before  the  Middle  Ages,  with 
defensive  moat  and  parapet,  with  keep  and  dungeon,  all  long  since 
fallen  into  ruin, — melted  in  the  unperceived  decay  of  ages,  or  bruised 
into  it  by  the  vigor  of  the  battering-ram  of  some  gallant  and  feudal 
company. 

He  will  say  to  you,  "All  these  are  mine.  They  are  part  of  my  race, 
and  my  race  is  of  them."  But  what  are  all  his  possessions — castle, 
moat,  dungeon,  or  gnarled  oak — beside  the  ancient  brotherhood  of  ven- 
erable trees  to  which  we  have  been  admitted,  and  whose  stately  silence 
we  have  been  permitted  to  break?  Our  trees  were  old  before  the 
Roman  invaded  Britain;  old  before  the  Saxon  followed  Hengist 
and  Horsa ;  old  before  the  Vikings  sailed  the  northern  seas.  For  ages 
piled  upon  ages,  even  before  letters  were  known,  before  history  com- 
menced to  make  its  record  of  the  doings  of  nations  and  races,  these 
trees  and  their  ancestors  builded  and  renewed  their  leafy  castles. 

The  groupings  of  the  present  monarchs  of  the  forest  show  that  these 
are  but  the  descendants  of  still  more  ancient  growths ;  were  once  noth- 
ing but  saplings  that  sprung  from  the  superabundant  life  of  some  giant 
trunk  long  since  vanished,  and  whose  grave  is  sentineled  by  his  stal- 
wart children.  How  shall  we  measure  the  vigor  and  force  which  they 
possess?  How  shall  we  comprehend  by  what  method  the  stately  body, 
ever  rising  in  monumental  force  toward  the  skies,  draws  its  being  from 
the  deep  and  busy  fingers  of  the  roots,  and  from  them  lifts  the  alche- 
mized earth  and  water  higher  and  still  higher,  until  both  feed  and  nour- 
ish the  smallest  leaf  and  spear-point  of  the  topmost  shaft, — spear-point 
that,  in  its  turn,  is  destined  in  some  future  age  to  become  a  stalwart 
trunk,  crowding  with  its  growth  ever  upward  and  onward  towards  the 
stars? 

Who  shall  tell  how,  through  the  eons  of  the  long  ago,  these  trees 


684  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

have  been  silent  and  majestic  watchers  of  the  night  and  dawn  and  day 
of  the  world's  life?  How  shall  we  conjecture  how  long  they  have 
been  welcoming  the  sun  in  his  rising,  and  have  caught  his  last  and 
lingering  caress  as  he  has  disappeared  in  the  glory  of  the  evening  sky? 
How  long  have  they  been  the  vigil  keepers  of  the  night,  and  watched 
the  silent  constellations  sailing  through  the  immensity  of  space?  Who 
shall  tell  us  if  these  trees  caught,  perhaps,  the  earliest  song  of  the  stars 
of  the  morning,  while  above  and  beyond  them,  unnumbered  comet  and 
meteor  have  shone  and  vanished? 

How  came  these  trees  to  this  continent?  Have  they  ever  lived  and 
burgeoned  in  some  other  happy  land?  or  are  they  the  fruit  of  one  sole 
and  giant  extravagance  of  nature,  exulting  in  the  uppermost  luxury  of 
force,  and  reveling  in  the  very  fullness  of  all  power?  Shall  man  solve 
the  mystery?  Nature  is  full  of  lessons  yet  to  be  learned,  but  nowhere 
in  air  or  earth  or  water  is  there  more  awe-inspiring  strangeness  than 
in  these  great  growths  whose  wonder  we  have  studied,  but  with  study 
fruitless  of  revelation. 

To  me,  during  the  days  we  spent  in  the  forest,  the  contemplation  of 
the  redwoods  was  never  for  a  moment  wearisome.  I  have  looked  up 
along  their  marvelous  length  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  frondent 
and  topmost  spear  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  sun's  glory,  and  i 
have  seen  his  afternoon  rays  flashing  and  glinting  on  emerald  bough 
and  purple  trunk,  and  at  last  losing  themselves  in  the  depths  of  a  sol- 
emn and  impenetrable  shade.  I  have  lain  at  night  on  the  dry  earth  and 
looked  up  at  the  closing  vista  of  the  dark  boughs  fretting  the  moon- 
light and  shutting  out  the  sparkle  of  the  stars,  until  their  weird  shapes 
seemed  summited  in  their  very  pathway;  and  I  saw,  when  Pan  killed 
Care  upon  the  mountain-side  that  overhung  the  grove,  such  an  illu- 
mination of  the  glory  of  the  trees  in  purple  and  crimson  and  scarlet 
as  shall  forever  make  the  ablest  effort  of  the  scenic  artist  stale,  tawdry, 
unendurable. 


THE  SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

By  Abraham  Lincoln 

(Delivered  from  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  1865.) 

Fellow  Countrymen  :  At  this  second  appearing  to  take  the  oath  of 
the  Presidential  office  there  is  less  occasion  for  an  extended  address 
than  there  was  at  first.    Then  a  statement,  somewhat  in  detail,  of  a 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    685 

course  to  be  pursued  seemed  very  fitting  and  proper.  Now,  at  the  expi- 
ration of  four  years,  during  which  public  declarations  have  been  con- 
stantly called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase  of  the  great  contest 
which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses  the  energies  of  the  na- 
tion, little  that  is  new  could  be  presented. 

The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which  all  else  chiefly  depends,  is  as 
well  known  to  the  public  as  to  myself,  and  it  is,  I  trust,  reasonably 
satisfactory  and  encouraging  to  all.  With  high  hope  for  the  future,  no 
prediction  in  regard  to  it  is  ventured. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this  four  years  ago,  all  thoughts 
were  anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil  war.  All  dreaded  it,  all 
sought  to  avoid  it.  While  the  inaugural  address  was  being  delivered 
from  this  place,  devoted  altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without  war, 
insurgent  agents  were  in  the  city  seeking  to  destroy  it  with  war — seek- 
ing to  dissolve  the  Union  and  divide  the  effects  by  negotiation.  Both 
parties  deprecated  war,  but  one  of  them  would  make  war  rather  than 
let  the  nation  survive,  and  the  other  would  accept  war  rather  than  let 
it  perish,  and  the  war  came.  One-eighth  of  the  whole  population  were 
colored  slaves,  not  distributed  generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized 
in  the  southern  part  of  it.  These  slaves  constituted  a  peculiar  and 
powerful  interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest  was  somehow  the  cause 
of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate,  and  extend  this  interest  was 
the  object  for  which  the  insurgents  would  rend  the  Union  by  war, 
while  the  Government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than  to  restrict  the 
territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or  the  duration 
which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither  anticipated  that  the  cause  of  the 
conflict  might  cease  when,  or  even  before,  the  conflict  itself  should 
cease.  Each  looked  for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a  result  less  funda- 
mental and  astounding.  Both  read  the  same  Bible,  and  pray  to  the 
same  God,  and  each  invokes  His  aid  against  the  other.  It  may  seem 
strange  that  any  men  should  dare  to  ask  a  just  God's  assistance  in 
wringing  their  bread  from  the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces ;  but  let  us 
judge  not,  that  we  be  not  judged.  The  prayer  of  both  could  not  be 
answered.  That  of  neither  has  been  answered  fully.  The  Almighty 
has  His  own  purposes.  Woe  unto  the  world  because  of  offenses,  for 
it  must  needs  be  that  offenses  come,  but  woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the 
offense  cometh.  If  we  shall  suppose  that  American  slavery  is  one  of 
those  offenses  which,  in  the  providence  of  God,  must  needs  come,  but 
which  having  continued  through  His  appointed  time,  He  now  wills  to 
remove,  and  that  He  gives  to  both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war 


686  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

as  the  woe  due  to  those  by  whom  the  offense  came,  shall  we  discern 
there  any  departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the  believers  in 
a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him  ?  Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do 
we  pray,  that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass  away. 
Yet  if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the 
bondsman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be 
sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  by  the  lash  shall  be  repaid 
by  another  drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand  years 
ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  that  the  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true 
and  righteous  altogether. 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all,  with  firmness  in  the 
right  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  finish  the  work  we  are  in, 
to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds,  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne 
the  battle,  and  for  his  widow  and  his  orphans,  to  do  all  which  may 
achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  a  lasting  peace  among  ourselves  and 
with  all  nations. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 
By  Wendell  Phillips 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Napoleon,  I  should  take  it  from  the 
lips  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  language  rich  enough  to  paint  the  great 
captain  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Were  I  to  tell  you  the  story  of 
Washington,  I  should  take  it  from  your  hearts, — you  who  think  no 
marble  white  enough  on  which  to  carve  the  name  of  the  father  of  his 
country.  But  I  am  to  tell  you  the  story  of  a  negro,  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture,  who  has  left  hardly  one  written  line.  I  am  to  glean  it 
from  the  reluctant  testimony  of  his  enemies, — men  who  despised  him 
because  he  was  a  negro  and  a  slave,  hated  him  because  he  had  beaten 
them  in  battle. 

Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army.  Napoleon,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-seven,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  best  troops  Europe  ever 
saw.  Cromwell  never  saw  an  army  till  he  was  forty;  this  man  never 
saw  a  soldier  till  he  was  fifty.  Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army 
— out  of  what?  England, — the  best  blood  in  Europe.  Out  of  the  mid- 
dle class  of  Englishmen, — the  best  blood  of  the  island.  And  with  it  he 
conquered  what?  Englishmen, — their  equals.  This  man  manufactured 
his  army  out  of  what?  Out  of  what  you  call  the  despicable  race  of 
negroes,  debased,  demoralized  by  two  hundred  years  of  slavery,  one 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC,  SPEECH    687 

hundred  thousand  of  them  imported  into  the  island  within  four  years, 
unable  to  speak  a  dialect  intelligible  even  to  each  other.  Yet  out  of 
this  mixed  and,  as  you  say,  despicable  mass,  he  forged  a  thunderbolt, 
and  hurled  it  at  what?  At  the  proudest  blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard, 
and  sent  him  home  conquered;  at  the  most  warlike  blood  in  Europe, 
the  French,  and  put  them  under  his  feet;  at  the  pluckiest  blood  in 
Europe,  the  English,  and  they  skulked  home  to  Jamaica.  Now,  if 
Cromwell  was  a  general,  this  man  was  a  soldier. 

Now,  blue-eyed  Saxon,  proud  of  your  age,  go  back  with  me  to  the 
commencement  of  the  century,  and  select  what  statesman  you  please. 
Let  him  be  either  American  or  European;  let  him  have  the  ripest 
training  of  university  routine;  let  him  add  to  it  the  better  education 
of  practical  life ;  crown  his  temples  with  the  silver  locks  of  seventy 
years,  and  show  me  the  man  of  Saxon  lineage  for  whom  his  most  san- 
guine admirer  will  wreathe  a  laurel,  rich  as  embittered  foes  have  placed 
on  the  brow  of  this  negro, — rare  military  skill,  profound  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  content  to  blot  out  all  party  distinctions,  and  trust  a 
state  to  the  blood  of  his  sons, — anticipating  Sir  Robert  Peel  fifty  years, 
and  taking  his  station  by  the  side  of  Roger  Williams,  before  any  Eng- 
lishman or  American  had  won  the  right;  and  yet  this  is  the  record 
which  the  history  of  rival  States  makes  up  for  this  inspired  black  of 
St.  Domingo. 

Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro.  Go  to  Hayti,  and  stand  on 
those  fifty  thousand  graves  of  the  best  soldiers  France  ever  had,  and 
ask  them  what  they  think  of  the  negro's  courage. 

I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his  way  to  empire 
over  broken  oaths  and  through  a  sea  of  blood.  This  man  never  broke 
his  word.  I  would  call  him  Cromwell,  but  Cromwell  was  only  a  sol- 
dier, and  the  state  he  founded  went  down  with  him  into  his  grave. 
I  would  call  him  Washington,  but  the  great  Virginian  held  slaves. 
This  man  risked  his  empire  rather  than  permit  the  slave-trade  in  the 
humblest  village  of  his  dominions. 

You  think  me  a  fanatic,  for  you  read  history,  not  with  your  eyes,  but 
with  your  prejudices.  But  fifty  years  hence,  when  Truth  gets  a  hear- 
ing, the  Muse  of  history  will  put  Phocion  for  the  Greek,  Brutus  for 
the  Roman,  Hampden  for  England,  Lafayette  for  France,  choose 
Washington  as  the  bright  consummate  flower  of  our  earlier  civiliza- 
tion, then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the  sunlight,  will  write  in  the  clear  blue, 
above  them  all,  the  name  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  martyr, 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 


688  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  TWO  GEORGES 
By  W.  H.  Rhodes 

Between  the  years  of  our  Lord  1730  and  1740,  two  men  were  born 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  whose  lives  were  destined  to 
exert  a  commanding  influence  on  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  as  well 
as  to  control  the  fortunes  of  many  succeeding  generations. 

One  was  by  birth  a  plain  peasant,  the  son  of  a  Virginia  farmer;  the 
other  an  hereditary  Prince,  and  the  heir  of  an  immense  empire. 

Go  with  me  for  one  moment  to  the  crowded  and  splendid  metropolis 
of  England.  It  is  the  evening  of  the  4th  of  June,  1734.  Some  joyful 
event  must  have  occurred,  for  the  bells  are  ringing  merrily,  and  the 
inhabitants  are  dressed  in  holiday  attire.  Nor  is  the  circumstance  of 
a  private  nature,  for  banners  are  everywhere  displayed,  the  vast  city 
is  illuminated,  and  a  thousand  cannon  are  proclaiming  it  from  their 
iron  throats.  The  population  seems  frantic  with  joy,  and  rush  tumul- 
tuously  into  each  other's  arms,  in  token  of  a  national  jubilee.  Tens  of 
thousands  are  hurrying  along  toward  a  splendid  marble  pile,  situated 
on  a  commanding  eminence,  near  the  River  Thames,  whilst  from  the 
loftiest  towers  of  St.  James's  Palace  the  national  ensigns  of  St.  George 
and  the  Red  Cross  are  seen  floating  on  the  breeze.  Within  one  of  the 
most  gorgeously  furnished  apartments  of  that  royal  abode,  the  wife  of 
Frederic,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  heir  apparent  to  the  British  Empire,  has 
just  been  delivered  of  a  son.  The  scions  of  royalty  crowd  into  the 
bed-chamber,  and  solemnly  attest  the  event  as  one  on  which  the  destiny 
of  a  great  empire  is  suspended.  The  corridors  are  thronged  with 
dukes,  and  nobles,  and  soldiers,  and  courtiers.  A  Royal  Proclamation 
soon  follows,  commemorating  the  event,  and  commanding  British  sub- 
jects everywhere,  who  acknowledge  the  honor  of  Brunswick,  to  rejoice, 
and  give  thanks  to  God  for  safely  ushering  into  existence  George  Wil- 
liam Frederic,  heir  presumptive  of  the  United  crowns  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland. 

Just  twenty-two  years  afterward  that  child  ascended  the  throne  of 
his  ancestors  as  King  George  the  Third. 

Let  us  now  turn  our  eyes  to  the  Western  Continent,  and  contemplate 
a  scene  of  similar  import,  but  under  circumstances  of  a  totally  differ- 
ent character.  It  is  the  22nd  of  February,  1732.  The  locality  is  a 
distant  colony,  the  spot  the  verge  of  an  immense,  untrodden  and  unex- 
plored wilderness,  the  habitation  a  log  cabin,  with  its  chinks  filled  in 
with  clay,  and  its  sloping  roof  patched  over  with  clapboards.     Snow 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    689 

covers  the  ground,  and  a  chill  wintry  wind  is  drifting  the  flakes,  and 
moaning  through  the  forest.  Two  immense  chimneys  stand  at  either 
end  of  the  house,  and  give  promise  of  cheerful  comfort  and  primitive 
hospitality  within,  totally  in  contrast  with  external  nature.  There  are 
but  four  small  rooms  in  the  dwelling,  in  one  of  which  Mary  Ball,  the 
wife  of  Augustine  Washington,  has  just  given  birth  to  a  son.  No 
dukes  or  marquises  or  earls  are  there  to  attest  the  humble  event. 
There  are  no  princes  of  the  blood  to  wrap  the  infant  in  the  insignia 
of  royalty,  and  fold  about  his  limbs  the  tapestried  escutcheon  of  a 
kingdom.  His  first  breath  is  not  drawn  in  the  center  of  a  mighty  cap- 
itol,  the  air  laden  with  perfume,  and  trembling  to  the  tones  of  soft 
music  and  the  "murmurs  of  low  fountains."  But  the  child  is  received 
from  its  mother's  womb  by  hands  embrowned  with  honest  labor,  and 
laid  upon  a  lowly  couch,  indicative  only  of  a  back-woodsman's  home 
and  an  American's  inheritance.  He,  too,  is  christened  George,  and 
forty-three  years  afterward  took  command  of  the  American  forces 
assembled  on  the  plains  of  old  Cambridge. 

But  if  their  births  were  dissimilar,  their  rearing  and  education  were 
still  more  unlike. 

From  his  earliest  recollection  the  Prince  heard  only  the  language  of 
flattery,  moved  about  from  palace  to  palace,  just  as  caprice  dictated, 
slept  upon  the  cygnet's  down,  and  grew  up  in  indolence,  self-will  and 
vanity,  a  dictator  from  his  cradle.  The  peasant  boy,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  taught  from  his  infancy  that  labor  was  honorable,  and  hard- 
ships indispensable  to  vigorous  health.  He  early  learned  to  sleep 
alone  amid  the  dangers  of  a  boundless  wilderness,  a  stone  for  his  pil- 
low, and  the  naked  sod  his  bed;  whilst  the  voices  of  untamed  nature 
around  him  sang  his  morning  and  his  evening  hymns.  Truth,  courage 
and  constancy  were  early  implanted  in  his  mind  by  a  mother's  coun- 
sels, and  the  important  lesson  of  life  was  taught  by  a  father's  example, 
that  when  existence  ceases  to  be  useful  it  ceases  to  be  happy. 

Early  manhood  ushered  them  both  into  active  life;  the  one  as  king 
over  extensive  dominions,  the  other  as  a  modest,  careful,  and  honest 
district  surveyor. 

Having  traced  the  two  Georges  to  the  threshold  of  their  careers,  let 
us  now  proceed  one  step  further,  and  take  note  of  the  first  great  public 
event  in  the  lives  of  each. 

For  a  long  time  preceding  the  year  1753  the  French  had  laid  claim 
to  all  the  North  American  continent  west  of  the  Alleghany  Moun- 
tains, stretching  in  an  unbroken  line  from  Canada  to  Louisiana.  The 
English  strenuously  denied  this  right,  and  when  the  French  command- 


690  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ant  on  the  Ohio,  in  1753,  commenced  erecting  a  fort  near  where  the 
present  city  of  Pittsburgh  stands,  and  proceeded  to  capture  certain 
English  traders,  and  expel  them  from  the  country,  Dinwiddie,  Gov- 
ernor of  Virginia,  deemed  it  necessary  to  dispatch  an  agent  on  a  dip- 
lomatic visit  to  the  French  commandant,  and  demand  by  what  author- 
ity he  acted,  by  what  title  he  claimed  the  country,  and  order  him  imme- 
diately to  evacuate  the  territory. 

George  Washington,  then  only  in  his  twenty-second  year,  was  se- 
lected by  the  governor  for  this  important  mission. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  him,  in  all  his  perils,  during  his  wintry 
march  through  the  wilderness.  The  historian  of  his  life  has  painted 
in  imperishable  colors  his  courage,  his  sagacity,  his  wonderful  coolness 
in  the  midst  of  danger,  and  the  success  which  crowned  his  undertaking. 
Memory  loves  to  follow  him  through  the  trackless  wilds  of  the  forest, 
accompanied  by  only  a  single  companion,  and  making  his  way  through 
wintry  snows,  in  the  midst  of  hostile  savages  and  wild  beasts,  for  more 
than  five  hundred  miles,  to  the  residence  of  the  French  commander. 
How  often  do  we  not  shudder,  as  we  behold  the  treacherous  Indian 
guide,  on  his  return,  deliberately  raising  his  rifle,  and  leveling  it  at  that 
majestic  form;  thus  endeavoring,  by  an  act  of  treachery  and  cowardice, 
to  deprive  Virginia  of  her  young  hero !  And  oh !  with  what  fervent 
prayers  do  we  not  implore  a  kind  Providence  to  watch  over  his  des- 
perate encounter  with  the  floating  ice,  at  midnight,  in  the  swollen  tor- 
rent of  the  Alleghany,  and  rescue  him  from  the  wave  and  the  storm. 
Standing  bareheaded  on  the  frail  craft,  whilst  in  the  act  of  dashing 
aside  some  floating  ice  that  threatened  to  engulf  him,  the  treacherous 
oar  was  broken  in  his  hand,  and  he  is  precipitated  many  feet  into  the 
boiling  current.  Save  1  oh,  save  him,  heaven !  for  the  destinies  of  mil- 
lions yet  unborn  hang  upon  that  noble  arm ! 

Let  us  now  recross  the  ocean.  In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1764,  a 
ministerial  crisis  occurs  in  England,  and  Lord  Bute,  the  favorite  of  the 
British  monarch,  is  driven  from  the  administration  of  the  government. 
The  troubles  with  the  American  colonists  have  also  just  commenced  to 
excite  attention,  and  the  young  King  grows  angry,  perplexed,  and 
greatly  irritated.  A  few  days  after  this,  a  rumor  starts  into  circula- 
tion that  the  monarch  is  sick.  His  attendants  look  gloomy,  his  friends 
terrified,  and  even  his  physicians  exhibit  symptoms  of  doubt  and  dan- 
ger. Yet  he  has  no  fever,  and  is  daily  observed  walking  with  uncer- 
tain and  agitated  step  along  the  corridors  of  the  palace.  His  conduct 
becomes  gradually  more  and  more  strange,  until  doubt  gives  place  to 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    691 

certainty,  and  the  royal  medical  staff  report  to  a  select  committee  of 
the  House  of .  Commons  that  the  King  is  threatened  with  insanity. 
For  six  weeks  the  cloud  obscures  his  mental  faculties,  depriving  him 
of  all  interference  with  the  administration  of  the  government,  and 
betokening  a  sad  disaster  in  the  future.  His  reason  is  finally  re- 
stored, but  frequent  fits  of  passion,  pride  and  obstinacy  indicate  but 
too  surely  that  the  disease  is  deep-seated,  and  a  radical  cure  impos- 
sible. 

Not  long  after  his  return  from  the  West,  Washington  was  offered 
the  chief  command  of  the  forces  about  to  be  raised  in  Virginia,  to 
expel  the  French ;  but,  with  his  usual  modesty,  he  declined  the  appoint- 
ment, on  account  of  his  extreme  youth,  but  consented  to  take  the  post 
of  lieutenant-colonel.  Shortly  afterward,  on  the  death  of  Colonel  Fry, 
he  was  promoted  to  the  chief  command,  but  through  no  solicitations 
of  his  own.  Subsequently,  when  the  war  between  France  and  England 
broke  out  in  Europe,  the  principal  seat  of  hostilities  was  transferred 
to  America,  and  his  majesty,  George  III,  sent  over  a  large  body  of 
troops,  under  the  command  of  favorite  officers.  But  this  was  not 
enough.  An  edict  soon  followed,  denominated  an  "Order  to  settle  the 
rank  of  the  officers  of  His  Majesty's  forces  serving  in  America."  By 
one  of  the  articles  of  this  order,  it  was  provided  "that  all  officers 
commissioned  by  the  King  should  take  precedence  of  those  of  the 
same  grade  commissioned  by  the  governors  of  the  respective  colonies, 
although  their  commissions  might  be  of  junior  date;"  and  it  was  fur- 
ther provided,  that  "when  the  troops  served  together,  the  provincial 
officers  should  enjoy  no  rank  at  all."  This  order  was  scarcely  promul- 
gated— indeed,  before  the  ink  was  dry — ere  the  Governor  of  Virginia 
received  a  communication  informing  him  that  George  Washington  was 
no  longer  a  soldier.  Entreaties,  exhortations  and  threats  were  all  lav- 
ished upon  him  in  vain;  and  to  those  who,  in  their  expostulations, 
spoke  of  the  defenseless  frontiers  of  his  native  state,  he  patriotically 
but  nobly  replied :  "I  will  serve  my  country  when  I  can  do  so  without 
dishonor." 

In  contrast  with  this  attitude  of  Washington,  look  at  the  conduct  of 
George  the  Third  respecting  the  colonies,  after  the  passage  of  the 
Stamp  Act  This  act  was  no  sooner  proclaimed  in  America,  than  the 
most  violent  opposition  was  manifested,  and  combinations  for  the  pur- 
pose of  effectual  resistance  were  rapidly  organized  from  Massachusetts 
to  Georgia.  The  leading  English  patriots,  among  whom  were  Burke 
and  Barre,  protested  against  the  folly  of  forcing  the  colonies  into  re- 


692  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

bellion,  and  the  city  of  London  presented  a  petition  to  the  king,  praying 
him  to  dismiss  the  Granville  ministry,  and  repeal  the  obnoxious  act. 
"It  is  with  the  utmost  astonishment,"  replied  the  king,  "that  I  find  any 
of  my  subjects  capable  of  encouraging  the  rebellious  disposition  that 
unhappily  exists  in  some  of  my  North  American  colonies.  Having 
entire  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  my  parliament,  the  great  council  of 
the  realm,  I  will  steadily  pursue  those  measures  which  they  have  rec- 
ommended for  the  support  of  the  constitutional  rights  of  Great  Brit- 
ain." He  heeded  not  the  memorable  words  of  Burke,  that  afterward 
became  prophetic.  "There  are  moments,"  exclaimed  this  great  states- 
man, "critical  moments  in  the  fortunes  of  all  states,  when  they  who 
are  too  weak  to  contribute  to  your  prosperity  may  yet  be  strong  enough 
to  complete  your  ruin."  The  Boston  port  bill  passed,  and  the  first 
blood  was  spilt  at  Lexington. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  review  in  detail  the  Revolution.  Let  us  pass  to 
the  social  position  of  the  two  Georges  in  after-life. 

On  the  2d  of  August,  1786,  as  the  king  was  alighting  from  his  car- 
riage at  the  gate  of  St.  James,  an  attempt  was  made  on  his  life  by  a 
woman  named  Margaret  Nicholson,  who,  under  pretense  of  presenting 
a  petition,  endeavored  to  stab  him  with  a  knife  which  was  concealed 
in  the  paper.  The  weapon  was  an  old  one,  and  so  rusty  that,  on 
striking  the  vest  of  the  king,  it  bent  double,  and  thus  preserved  his 
life.  On  the  29th  of  October,  1795,  whilst  his  majesty  was  proceeding 
to  the  House  of  Lords,  a  ball  passed  through  both  windows  of  the  car- 
riage. On  his  return  to  St.  James  the  mob  threw  stones  into  the  car- 
riage, several  of  which  struck  the  king,  and  one  lodged  in  the  cuff  of 
his  coat.  The  state  carriage  was  completely  demolished  by  the  mob. 
But  it  was  on  the  15th  of  May,  1800,  that  George  the  Third  made  his 
narrowest  escapes.  In  the  morning  of  that  day,  whilst  attending  the 
field  exercise  of  a  battalion  of  guards,  one  of  the  soldiers  loaded  his 
piece  with  a  bullet  and  discharged  it  at  the  king.  The  ball  fortunately 
missed  its  aim,  and  lodged  in  the  thigh  of  a  gentleman  who  was  stand- 
ing in  the  rear.  In  the  evening  of  the  same  day  a  more  alarming  cir- 
cumstance occurred  at  the  Drury  Lane  Theater.  At  the  moment  when 
the  king  entered  the  royal  box,  a  man  in  the  pit,  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  orchestra,  suddenly  stood  up  and  discharged  a  large  horse- 
pistol  at  him.  The  hand  of  the  would-be  assassin  was  thrown  up 
by  a  by-stander,  and  the  ball  entered  the  box  just  above  the  head 
of  the  king. 

Such  were  the  public  manifestations  of  affection  for  this  royal  tyrant* 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    693 

He  was  finally  attacked  by  an  enemy  that  could  not  be  thwarted,  and 
on  the  20th  of  December,  1810,  he  became  a  confirmed  lunatic.  In  this 
dreadful  condition  he  lingered  until  January,  1820,  when  he  died,  hav- 
ing been  the  most  unpopular,  unwise  and  obstinate  sovereign  that  ever 
disgraced  the  English  throne.  He  was  forgotten  as  soon  as  life  left 
his  body,  and  was  hurriedly  buried  with  that  empty  pomp  which  but 
too  often  attends  a  despot  to  the  grave. 

The  mind,  in  passing  from  the  unhonored  grave  of  the  prince  to  the 
last  resting-place  of  the  peasant  boy,  leaps  from  a  kingdom  of  darkness 
to  one  of  light. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  career  of  Washington.  Throughout  the 
Revolutionary  War  he  carried  in  his  hand,  like  Atropos,  the  destinies 
of  millions;  he  bore  on  his  shoulders,  like  Atlas,  the  weight  of  a 
world.  It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  him  throughout  his  subsequent 
career.  Honored  again  and  again  by  the  people  of  the  land  he  had 
redeemed  from  thraldom,  he  has  taken  his  place  in  death  by  the  side 
of  the  wisest  and  best  of  the  world's  benefactors.  Assassins  did  not 
unglory  him  in  life,  nor  has  oblivion  drawn  her  mantle  over  him  in 
death.  The  names  of  his  great  battlefields  have  become  nursery  words, 
and  his  principles  have  imbedded  themselves  forever  in  the  national 
character.  Every  pulsation  of  our  hearts  beats  true  to  his  memory. 
His  mementoes  are  everywhere  around  and  about  us.  Distant  as  we 
are  from  the  green  fields  of  his  native  Westmoreland,  the  circle  of  his 
renown  has  spread  far  beyond  our  borders.  In  climes  where  the  torch 
of  science  was  never  kindled;  on  shores  still  buried  in  primeval  bloom; 
amongst  barbarians  where  the  face  of  liberty  was  never  seen,  the 
Christian  missionary  of  America,  roused  perhaps  from  his  holy  duties 
by  the  distant  echo  of  the  national  salute,  this  day  thundering  amidst 
the  billows  of  every  sea,  or  dazzled  by  the  gleam  of  his  country's  ban- 
ner, this  day  floating  in  every  wind  of  heaven,  pauses  over  his  task  as 
a  Christian,  and  whilst  memory  kindles  in  his  bosom  the  fires  of 
patriotism,  pronounces  in  the  ear  of  the  enslaved  pagan  the  venerated 
name  of  Washington. 

Wherever  tyranny  shall  lift  its  Medusan  head,  wherever  treason 
shall  plot  its  hellish  schemes,  wherever  disunion  shall  unfurl  its  tattered 
ensign,  there,  oh  there,  sow  his  deeds  in  the  hearts  of  patriots  and 
republicans.  For  from  these  there  shall  spring,  as  from  the  dragon's 
teeth  sown  by  Cadmus  of  old  on  the  plains  of  Heber,  vast  armies  of 
invincible  heroes,  sworn  upon  the  altar  and  tomb  at  Mount  Vernon,  to 
live  as  freemen,  or  as  such  to  die ! 


694  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

THE  LESSONS  OF  THE  TRAGEDY 

(The  Murder  of  President  McKinley) 

By  David  Starr  Jordan 

We  meet  to-day  under  the  sway  of  a  number  of  different  emotions. 
We  would  express  our  sorrow  at  the  untimely  death  of  a  good  man. 
We  would  show  our  regret  that  our  nation  has  lost  the  Chief  Magis- 
trate of  its  choice.  We  would  express  our  sympathy  with  the  gentle 
woman  who  has  been  suddenly  bereft  of  the  kindest  and  most  consid- 
erate of  husbands.  We  are  filled  with  shame  that  in  our  Republic,  the 
land  where  all  men  are  free  and  equal  wherever  they  behave  them- 
selves as  men,  the  land  which  has  no  rulers  save  the  public  servants 
of  its  own  choosing,  a  deed  like  this  should  be  possible.  We  would 
express  our  detestation  of  that  kind  of  political  and  social  agitation 
which  finds  no  method  of  working  reform  save  through  intimidation 
and  killing.  We  would  wish  to  find  the  true  lessons  of  this  event  and 
would  not  let  even  the  least  of  them  fall  on  our  ears  unheeded. 

And  one  plain  lesson  in  this :  Under  democracy  all  violence  is  trea- 
son. Whosoever  throws  a  stone  at  a  scab  teamster,  whosoever  fires  a 
shot  at  the  President  of  the  United  States,  is  an  enemy  of  the  Repub- 
lic. He  is  guilty  of  high  treason  in  his  heart,  and  treason  in  thought 
works  itself  out  in  lawlessness  of  action. 

The  central  fact  of  all  democracy  is  agreement  with  law.  It  is  our 
law ;  we  have  made  it.  If  it  is  wrong  we  can  change  it,  but  the  com- 
pact of  democracy  is  that  we  change  it  in  peace.  "The  sole  source  of 
power  under  God  is  the  consent  of  the  governed."  This  was  written 
by  Cromwell  across  the  statute  books  of  Parliament.  This  our  fathers 
wrote  in  other  words  in  our  own  Constitution.  The  will  of  the  people 
is  the  sole  source  of  any  statute  you  or  I  may  be  called  on  to  obey. 
It  is  the  decree  of  no  army,  the  dictum  of  no  president.  It  is  the 
work  of  no  aristocracy;  not  of  blood  nor  of  wealth.  It  is  simply  our 
own  understanding  that  we  have  to  do  right,  shall  behave  justly,  shall 
live  and  let  our  neighbor  live.  -If  our  law  is  tyrannous,  it  is  our  ignor- 
ance which  has  made  it  so.  Let  it  pinch  a  little  and  we  shall  find  out 
what  hurts  us.  Then  it  will  be  time  to  change.  Laws  are  made 
through  the  ballot,  and  through  the  ballot  we  can  unmake  them.  There 
is  no  other  honest  way,  no  other  way  that  is  safe,  and  no  other  way 
that  is  effective.  To  break  the  peace  is  to  invite  tyranny.  Lawlessness 
is    the   expression    of    weakness,    of    ignorance,    of    unpatriotism.     If 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    695 

tyranny  provokes  anarchy,  so  does  anarchy  necessitate  tyranny, 
fusion  brings  the  man  on  horseback.     It  was  to  keep  away  both  anarchy 
and  tyranny  that  the  public  school  was  established  in  America. 

Three  times  has  cur  nation  been  called  upon  to  pass  into  the  shadow 
of  humiliation,  and  each  time  in  the  past  it  has  learned  its  severe 
lesson.  When  Lincoln  fell,  slavery  perished.  To  the  American  of 
to-day  human  slavery  in  a  land  of  civilization  is  almost  an  impossible 
conception,  yet  many  of  us  who  think  ourselves  still  young  can  remem- 
ber when  half  of  this  land  held  other  men  in  bondage  and  the  dearest 
hope  of  freedom  was  that  such  things  should  not  go  on  forever.  I  can 
remember  when  we  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  "at  least  the 
present  form  of  slavery  should  be  no  more."  For  democracy  and  sla- 
very could  not  subsist  together.  The  Union  could  not  stand — half 
slave,  half  free. 

The  last  words  of  Garfield  were  these :  Strangulatus  pro  Republica. 
(Slain  for  the  Republic.)  The  feudal  tyranny  of  the  spoils  system 
which  had  made  republican  administration  a  farce,  has  not  had,  since 
Garfield's  time,  a  public  defender.  It  has  not  vanished  from  our  pol- 
itics, but  its  place  is  where  it  belongs — among  the  petty  wrongs  of 
maladministration. 

Again  a  president  is  slain  for  the  Republic — and  the  lesson  is  the 
homely  one  of  peace  and  order,  patience  and  justice,  respect  for  our- 
selves through  respect  for  the  law,  for  public  welfare,  and  for  public 
right 

^or  this  country  is  passing  through  a  time  of  storm  and  stress,  a 
flurry  of  lawless  sensationalism.  The  irresponsible  journalism,  the 
industrial  wars,  the  display  of  hastily-gotten  wealth,  the  grasping  mo- 
nopoly, the  walking  delegate,  the  vulgar  cartoon,  the  foul-mouthed  agi- 
tator, the  sympathetic  strike,  the  unsympathetic  lockout,  are  all  symp- 
toms of  a  single  disease — the  loss  of  patriotism,  the  decay  of  the  sense 
of  justice.  As  in  other  cases,  the  symptoms  feed  the  disease,  as  well 
as  indicate  it.  The  deed  of  violence  breeds  more  deeds  of  violence; 
anarchy  provokes  hysteria,  and  hysteria  makes  anarchy.  The  un- 
founded scandal  sets  a  hundred  tongues  to  wagging,  and  the  seepage 
from  the  gutter  reaches  a  thousand  homes. 

The  journal  for  the  weak-minded  and  debased  makes  heroes  of  those 
of  its  class  who  carry  folly  over  into  crime.  The  half-crazy  egotist 
imagines  himself  a  regicide,  and  his  neighbor  with  the  clean  shirt  is  his 
oppressor  and  therefore  his  natural  victim.  Usually  his  heart  fails 
him,  and  his  madness  spends  itself  in  foul  words.  Sometimes  it  does 
not,  and  the  world  stands  aghast.    But  it  is  not  alone  against  the  Chief 


right. 


696  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Magistrate  that  these  thoughts  and  deeds  are  directed.  There  ar* 
usually  others  within  closer  range.  There  is  scarcely  a  man  in  our 
country,  prominent  in  any  way,  statesman,  banker,  merchant,  railway 
manager,  clergyman,  teacher  even,  that  has  not,  somewhere,  his 
would-be  Nemesis,  some  lunatic,  with  a  sensational  newspaper  and  a 
pistol,  prepared  to  take  his  life. 

The  gospel  of  discontent  has  no  place  within  our  Republic.  It  is 
true,  as  has  often  been  said,  that  discontent  is  the  cause  of  human 
progress.  It  is  truer  still,  as  Mr.  John  P.  Irish  has  lately  pointed  out, 
that  discontent  may  be  good  or  bad,  according  to  its  relation  to  the 
individual  man.  There  is  a  noble  discontent  which  a  man  turns 
against  himself.  It  leads  the  man  who  fails  to  examine  his  own  weak- 
nesses, to  make  the  needed  repairs  in  himself,  then  to  take  up  the  strug- 
gle again.  There  is  a  cowardly  discontent  which  leads  a  man  to  blame 
all  failure  on  his  prosperous  neighbor  or  on  society  at  large,  as  if  a 
social  system  existed  apart  from  the  men  who  make  it.  This  is  the 
sort  of  discontent  to  which  the  agitator  appeals,  that  finds  its  stimulus 
in  sensational  journalism.  It  is  that  which  feeds  the  frenzy  of  the 
assassin  who  would  work  revenge  on  society  by  destroying  its  ac- 
cepted head. 

It  is  not  theoretical  anarchism  or  socialism  or  any  other  "ism"  which 
is  responsible  for  this.  Many  of  the  gentlest  spirits  in  the  world  to- 
day call  themselves  anarchists,  because  they  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  personal  meekness  shall  take  the  place  of  all  statutes.  The  gen- 
tle anarchism  of  the  optimistic  philosopher  is  not  that  which  confronts 
us  to-day.  It  is  the  anarchy  of  destruction,  the  hatred  of  class  for 
class;  a  hatred  that  rests  only  on  distorted  imagination,  for,  after  all 
is  said,  there  are  no  classes  in  America.  It  is  the  hatred  imported  from 
the  Old  World,  excited  by  walking  delegates  whose  purpose  it  is  to 
carry  a  torch  through  society;  a  hatred  fanned  by  agitators  of  what- 
ever sort,  unpractical  dreamers  or  conscienceless  scoundrels,  exploited 
in  the  newspapers,  abetted  by  so-called  high  society  with  its  display  of 
shoddy  and  greed,  and  intensified  by  the  cold,  hard  selfishness  that 
underlies  the  power  of  the  trust.  All  these  people,  monopolists,  social 
leaders,  walking  delegates,  agitators,  sensationalists,  dreamers,  are 
alien  to  our  ways,  outside  the  scope  of  our  democracy,  and  enemies  to 
good  citizenship. 

The  real  Americans,  trying  to  live  their  lives  in  their  own  way,  sav- 
ing a  little  of  their  earnings  and  turning  the  rest  into  education  and 
enjoyment,  have  many  grievances  in  these, days  of  grasping  trusts  and 
lawless  unions.     But  of   such   free  Americans   our   country   is   made. 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH     697 

They  are  the  people,  not  the  trusts  or  the  unions,  nor  their  sensational 
go-betweens.  This  is  their  government,  and  the  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth.  This  is  the  people's  President — our  President — who  was  killed, 
and  it  is  ours  to  avenge  him. 

Not  by  lynch  law  on  a  large  or  small  scale  may  we  do  it;  not 
by  anarchy  or  despotism;  not  by  the  destruction  of  all  that  call 
themselves  anarchists,  not-  by  abridging  freedom  of  the  press  nor  by 
checking  freedom  of  speech.  Those  who  would  wreak  lawless  ven- 
geance on  the  anarchists  are  themselves  anarchists  and  makers  of 
anarchists. 

We  have  laws  enough  already  without  making  more  for  men  to 
break.  Let  us  get  a  little  closer  to  the  higher  law.  Let  us  respect  our 
own  rights  and  those  of  our  neighbor  a  little  better.  Let  us  cease  to 
tolerate  sensational  falsehood  about  our  neighbor,  or  vulgar  abuse  of 
those  in  power.  If  we  have  bad  rulers,  let  us  change  them  peacefully. 
Let  us  put  an  end  to  every  form  of  intimidation,  wherever  practiced. 
The  cause  that  depends  upon  hurling  bricks  or  epithets,  or  upon  club- 
bing teamsters  or  derailing  trains,  cannot  be  a  good  cause.  Even  if 
originally  in  the  right,  the  act  of  violence  puts  the  partisans  of  such  a 
cause  in  the  wrong.  No  freeman  ever  needs  to  do  such  things  as  these. 
For  the  final  meaning  of  democracy  is  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to- 
wards men.  When  we  stand  for  justice  among  ourselves  we  can  de- 
mand justice  of  the  monopolistic  trust.  When  we  attack  it  with  clear 
vision  and  cool  speech  we  shall  find  the  problem  of  combination  for 
monopoly  not  greater  than  any  other.  And  large  or  small,  there  is  but 
one  way  for  us  to  meet  any  problem :  to  choose  wise  men,  clean  men, 
cool  men,  the  best  we  can  secure  through  our  method  of  the  ballot, 
and  then  to  trust  the  rest  in  their  hands.  The  murder  of  the  President 
has  no  direct  connection  with  industrial  war.  Yet  there  is  this  con- 
nection, that  all  war,  industrial  or  other,  loosens  the  bonds  of  order, 
destroys  mutual  respect  and  trust,  gives  inspiration  to  anarchy,  pushes 
a  foul  thought  on  to  a  foul  word,  a  foul  word  on  to  a  foul  deed. 

We  trust  now  that  the  worst  has  come,  the  foulest  deed  has  been 
committed,  that  our  civil  wars  may  stop,  not  through  the  victory  of  one 
side  over  the  other,  the  trusts  or  the  unions  now  set  off  against  each 
other,  but  in  the  victory  over  both  of  the  American  people,  of  the 
great  body  of  men  and  women  who  must  pay  for  all,  and  who  are  the 
real  sufferers  in  every  phase  of  the  struggle. 

Strangulatus  pro  Republica  —  slain  for  the  republic.  The  lesson  is 
plain.    It  is  for  us  to  take  it  into  our  daily  lives.     It  is  the  lesson  of 


698  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

peace  and  good-will,  the  lesson  of  manliness  and  godliness.    Let  us 
take  it  to  ourselves,  and  our  neighbors  will  take  it  from  us. 

All  civilized  countries  are  ruled  by  public  opinion.  If  there  be  a 
lapse  in  our  civic  duties,  it  is  due  to  a  lapse  in  our  keenness  of  vision, 
our  devotion  to  justice.  This  means  a  weakening  of  the  individual 
man,  the  loss  of  the  man  himself  in  the  movements  of  the  mass. 
Perhaps  the  marvelous  material  development  of  our  age,  the  achieve- 
ments of  huge  cooperation  which  science  has  made  possible,  has  over- 
shadowed the  importance  of  the  individual  man.  If  so,  we  have  only 
to  reassert  ourselves.  It  is  of  men,  individual  men,  clear-thinking, 
God-fearing,  sound-acting  men,  and  of  these  alone,  that  great  nations 
can  be  made. — From  "The  Voice  of  the  Scholar,"  by  kind  permission  of 
author  and  publishers,  Paul  Elder  &  Co.,  San  Francisco. 

WHAT  IS  TO  BE  THE  DESTINY  OF  THIS 
REPUBLIC 

By  Judge  Story 

When  we  reflect  on  what  has  been  and  what  is,  how  is  it  possible 
not  to  feel  a  profound  sense  of  the  responsibilities  of  this  republic  to 
all  future  ages !  What  vast  motives  press  upon  us  for  lofty  efforts ! 
What  brilliant  prospects  invite  our  enthusiasm!  What  solemn  warn- 
ings at  once  demand  our  vigilance  and  moderate  our  confidence! 

The  old  world  has  already  revealed  to  us,  in  its  unsealed  books,  the 
beginning  and  end  of  all  its  marvelous  struggles  in  the  cause  of  liberty. 

Greece!  lovely  Greece!  "the  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of 
arms,"  where  sister  republics,  in  fair  processions,  chanted  the  praise 
of  liberty  and  the  good — where  and  what  is  she?  For  two  thousand 
years  the  oppressors  have  bound  her  to  the  earth.  Her  arts  are  no 
more.  The  last  sad  relics  of  her  temples  are  but  the  barracks  of  a 
ruthless  soldiery;  the  fragments  of  her  columns  and  her  palaces  are  in 
the  dust,  yet  beautiful  in  ruin.  She  fell  not  when  the  mighty  were  upon 
her.  Her  sons  were  united  at  Thermopylae  and  Marathon;  and  the 
tide  of  her  triumph  rolled  back  upon  the  Hellespont.  She  was  con- 
quered by  her  own  factions.  She  fell  by  the  hands  of  her  own  people. 
The  man  of  Macedonia  did  not  the  work  of  destruction.  It  was 
already  done  by  her  own  corruptions,  banishments,  and  dissensions. 

Rome!  republican  Rome!  whose  eagles  glanced  in  the  rising  and 
setting  sun, — where  and  what  is  she?  The  eternal  city  yet  remains, 
proud  even  in  her  desolation,  noble  in  her  decline,  venerable  in  the 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    699 

majesty  of  religion,  and  calm  as  in  the  composure  of  death.  The 
malaria  has  traveled  in  the  parts  won  by  the  destroyers.  More 
than  eighteen  centuries  have  mourned  over  the  loss  of  the  empire.  A 
mortal  disease  war,  upon  her  before  Caesar  had  crossed  the  Rubicon; 
and  Brutus  did  not  restore  her  health  by  the  deep  probings  of  the 
senate-chamber.  The  Goths,  and  Vandals,  and  Huns,  the  swarms  of 
the  north,  completed  only  what  was  begun  at  home.  Romans  betrayed 
Rome.  The  legions  were  bought  and  sold,  but  the  people  offered  the 
tribute-money. 

And  where  are  the  republics  of  modern  times,  which  cluster  around 
immortal  Italy?  Venice  and  Genoa  exist  but  in  name.  The  Alps,  in- 
deed, look  down  upon  the  brave  and  peaceful  Swiss,  in  their  native 
fastnesses;  but,  the  guarantee  of  their  freedom  is  in  their  weakness, 
and  not  in  their  strength.  The  mountains  are  not  easily  crossed,  and 
the  valleys  are  not  easily  retained.  When  the  invader  comes,  he  moves 
like  an  avalanche,  carrying  destruction  in  his  path.  The  peasantry  sink 
before  him.  The  country,  too,  is  too  poor  for  plunder,  and  too  rough 
for  a  valuable  conquest.  Nature  presents  her  eternal  barrier  on  every 
side,  to  check  the  wantonness  of  ambition.  And  Switzerland  remains, 
with  her  simple  institutions,  a  military  road  to  climates  scarcely  worth 
a  permanent  possession,  and  protected  by  the  jealousy  of  her 
neighbors. 

We  stand  the  latest,  and,  if  we  fall,  probably  the  last  experiment  of 
self-government  by  the  people.  We  have  begun  it  under  circumstances 
of  the  most  auspicious  nature.  We  are  in  the  vigor  of  youth.  Our 
growth  has  never  been  checked  by  the  oppression  of  tyranny.  Our 
constitutions  never  have  been  enfeebled  by  the  vice  or  the  luxuries  of 
the  world.  Such  as  we  are,  we  have  been  from  the  beginning,  simple, 
hardy,  intelligent,  accustomed  to  self-government  and  self-respect. 
The  Atlantic  rolls  between  us  and  a  formidable  foe.  Within  our  own 
territory,  stretching  through  many  degrees  of  latitude,  we  have  the 
choice  of  many  products,  and  many  means  of  independence.  The  gov- 
ernment is  mild.  The  press  is  free.  Religion  is  free.  Knowledge 
reaches  or  may  reach  every  home.  What  fairer  prospects  of  success 
could  be  presented?  What  means  more  adequate  to  accomplish  the 
sublime  end?  What  more  is  necessary  than  for  the  people  to  preserve 
what  they  themselves  have  createa  r 

Already  has  the  age  caught  the  spirit  of  our  institutions.  It  has 
already  ascended  the  Andes,  and  snuffed  the  breezes  of  both  oceans. 
It  has  infused  itself  into  the  life-blood  of  Europe,  and  warmed  the 
sunny  plains  of  France  and  the  lowlands  of  Holland.    It  has  touched 


700  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

the  philosophy  of  the  north,  and,  moving  onward  to  the  south,  has 
opened  to  Greece  the  lesson  of  her  better  days. 

Can  it  be,  that  America,  under  such  circumstances,  can  betray  her- 
self? That  she  is  to  be  added  to  the  catalogue  of  republics,  the  inscrip- 
tion upon  whose  ruin  is:  "They  were,  but  they  are  not!"  Forbid  it, 
my  countrymen:  forbid  it,  Heaven! 

I  call  upon  you,  fathers,  by  the  shades  of  your  ancestors,  by  the  dear 
ashes  which  repose  in  this  precious  soil,  by  all  you  are,  and  all  you 
hope  to  be,  resist  every  project  of  disunion;  resist  every  attempt  to 
fetter  your  consciences,  or  smother  your  public  schools,  or  extinguish 
your  system  of  public  instruction. 

I  call  upon  you,  mothers,  by  that  which  never  fails  in  woman,  the 
love  of  your  offspring,  to  teach  them,  as  they  climb  your  knees,  or  lean 
on  your  bosoms,  the  blessings  of  liberty.  Swear  them  at  the  altar,  as 
with  their  baptismal  vows,  to  be  true  to  their  country,  and  never  for- 
sake her. 

I  call  upon  you,  young  men,  to  remember  whose  sons  you  are — whose 
inheritance  you  possess.  Life  can  never  be  too  short,  which  brings 
nothing  but  disgrace  and  oppression.  Death  never  comes  too  soon,  if 
necessary  in  defense  of  the  liberties  of  our  country. 

MEMORIAL  DAY  ADDRESS 

(An  oration  delivered  in  San  Francisco,  May  30,  igoi.) 
By  Samuel  M.  Shortridge 

This  day  is  consecrate  to  the  nation's  dead  and  living  soldiers. 
Uncovered  beside  the  hallowed  graves  of  those  who  fought  and  fell  in 
the  sacred  cause  of  Union  and  Liberty,  a  people  of  brave  men  and  loyal 
women  stand  with  hearts  oppressed  with  gratitude,  and  listen  to  the 
story  of  their  heroes'  deeds  and  death.  We  come  in  thankfulness- 
matron  and  maid,  sire  and  lad— to  scatter  fragrant  flowers  on  the 
honored  dust,  and  for  the  martyrs  who  sleep  unknown  but  not  unwept. 
We  come  to  grasp  the  hands  of  the  surviving  heroes  who  responded 
to  their  country's  cry  of  anguish  when  the  temple  of  liberty  was 
assailed  and  her  sacred  altars  desecrated;  who  endured  the  long, 
weary  march,  the  cruel  deprivations  of  the  camp,  the  fevered  heat  of 
noon  and  the  chilling  cold  at  night;  who  stormed  the  frowning  heights 
where  treason  was  intrenched,  and  met  upon  an  hundred  fields  the 
brave  but  misguided  hosts  that  in  madness  and  folly  sought  to  destroy 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    701 

the  edifice  dedicated  with  the  prayers  and  consecrated  by  the  valor 
and  blood  of  the  patriot  fathers ;  who  carried  the  tattered  but  dear 
flag  of  their  country  through  fire  and  flood  and  the  "valley  and  shadow 
of  death,"  and  paused  not  until  it  waved  victorious  in  every  state  and 
was  respected  on  ^very  sea.  We  come  to  shed  proud  and  happy  tears 
for  those  who  gladly  gave  up  all  for  their  imperiled  country,  in  order  to 
preserve  the  precious  fruits  of  the  Revolutionary  struggle  and  to  keep 
the  flag  of  Washington  triumphant  in  the  sky.  We  come  to  welcome 
and  to  dower  with  our  love  the  loyal  and  self-sacrificing  men  who  left 
the  plow,  the  forge,  the  desk,  to  rescue  from  the  jaws  of  death  the 
greatest,  best,  and  truest  republic  that  ever  blessed  the  earth. 

A  common  thought  pervades  all  hearts.  This  is  not  a  day  for  vain- 
glorious boasting,  but  for  gratitude  and  praise.  We  come  in  sorrow, 
not  in  anger,  and  our  hearts  are  filled  with  sadness,  not  revenge.  We 
are  not  here  to  upbraid,  to  accuse,  to  exult  over  the  defeat  of  brethren 
and  brave  men,  to  denounce  what  is  no  more,  to  open  wounds  by  the 
healing  touch  of  Time  made  whole.  No,  no;  Heaven  forbid  that  this 
sacred  day  should  stir  our  hearts  to  other  than  feelings  of  forgiveness, 
of  gratitude,  of  pride,  and  of  love.     Rather  let  it  be  said  we  come  to — 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain. 

For  those  who  died  to  save  the  republic,  I  have  tears  and  eulogy;  for 
those  who  died  to  overthrow  it,  I  have  tears  and  silence. 

Not  as  citizens  of  a  torn  and  discordant  Union,  not  as  blinded  par- 
tisans, but  as  children  of  a  common  and  reunited  country,  we  gather 
to  give  expression  of  our  gratitude  to  those  who  by  their  sacrifices  and 
their  martyrdom  made  this  land  the  home  of  freedom,  and  the  banner 
of  the  stars  the  symbol  of  one  people,  one  constitution,  and  one'  destiny. 

We  are  gathered  here — the  multitude  has  put  on  a  suit  of  woe  and 
stands  beside  the  graves  where  heroes  sleep — not  to  revive  bitter  mem- 
ories, not  to  cause  heartaches  or  awaken  animosities,  dead,  let  us  fer- 
vently hope,  forever,  but  for  a  better,  worthier,  and  more  patriotic  pur- 
pose: to  teach  the  rising  generation  that  the  dead  fell  not  in  vain;  to 
impress  upon  their  youthful  hearts  that  America  does  not  forget  the 
travail  through  which,  by  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  Heaven,  she  has 
passed,  that  she  loves  her  loyal  sons  and  daughters  with  more  than 
Cornelian  affection,  and  treasures  them  now,  and  will  treasure  them 
forever,  as  her  unfading  glory. 

And  so,  my  countrymen,  we  come  to  sorrow  and  to  rejoice, — to  sor- 
row over  the  loved  and  lost,  to  rejoice  over  their  magnificent  achieve- 


702  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ments  and  a  Union  saved  and  disenthralled  by  their  devotion.  As  in 
the  Roman  days  the  wives  and  mothers  went  out  upon  the  Appian  Way 
to  meet  the  home-returning  legions, — some  to  fall  upon  the  bosoms  of 
husbands,  fathers,  or  sons,  and  shed  tears  of  joy,  and  some  to  search 
in  vain  for  dear  ones  amid  the  broken,  decimated  ranks,  but  wept  not, 
because  they  had  died  bravely  in  defense  of  Rome,  her  altars,  and  her 
fires, — so  we  welcome  to-day  the  scarred  and  wounded,  the  remnant 
of  hard-fought  fields ;  we  stretch  forth  our  arms  to  embrace  them ;  we 
cover  them  with  garlands  emblematic  of  our  love,  and  scatter  flowers 
in  their  way  to  tread  upon. 

But  for  the  ones  who  answer  not,  who  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  of 
death,  who  died  with  the  face  of  mother  near  their  hearts,  the  name 
of  country  on  their  lips,  what  shall  we  say?  They  cannot  hear  our 
words  nor  see  the  offering  of  our  hands ;  they  are  past  all  battles,  all 
marches,  all  victories,  all  defeats ;  "on  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 
their  silent  tents  are  spread,"  and  the  troubled  drum  disturbs  their 
sleep  no  more.  And  yet,  O  sacred  shades  of  the  unreplying  dead,  we 
feel  your  presence  now.  We  hear  the  shot  of  Sumter  that  wakened 
all  the  land;  we  see  you  coming  down  from  the  mountains,  up  from 
the  plains,  and  marching  away  to  battle,  leaving  behind,  alas ;  forever, 
faithful  wife,  loving  children,  aged  mother,  venerable  father;  we  see 
you  by  the  campfires  dimly  burning;  we  see  you  in  the  cannon-smoke 
and  hurricane  of  war;  we  hear  the  command  to  charge,  which  you 
obey,  how  bravely,  with  bosom  bared  and  parched,  thirsty  lips ;  we 
see  you  wounded  and  bleeding;  we  see  you  in  the  hospitals  of  fever 
and  pain;  we  see  you  again  with  your  regiment,  with  courage  un- 
daunted, your  love  of  home  and  flag  intensified ;  we  see  your  comrades 
fall  around  you  like  flowers  of  spring  cut  down;  we  see  you  captured 
and  hurried  away;  we  see  you  wasting  in  awful  dungeons,  languishing 
in  prison-pens ;  we  catch  the  faint  accent  of  your  tongues  as  you  mur- 
mur a  prayer  for  your  country  and  for  the  loved  ones  that  come  to 
you  in  your  dreams ;  we  see  you  encounter  death  in  the  gaunt  and 
hideous  form  of  starvation  and  quail  not ;  we  see  you  die !  Die  for 
what?  Die  for  whom?  Die  for  Union  and  Liberty.  Die  for  us  and 
generations  yet  to  be. 

Dead  and  living  soldiers  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  you, 
you  engaged  in  the  holiest  cause  that  ever  received  the  approving  smile 
of  Heaven;  you  preserved  the  Union,  "One  and  inseparable,"  with  all 
its  blessed  memories,  with  all  its  priceless  benefits,  with  all  its  exalted 
and  encouraging  hopes.  You  carried  the  banner  of  your  country,  full 
high  advanced  through  the  darkest  hour  and  wildest  storm  that  ever 


ORATORIO  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH      703 

overwhelmed  a  nation,  until  the  returning  and  radiant  morn  of  victory 
and  peace  blessed  and  hallowed  it.  Moved  by  the  loftiest  purposes, 
inspired  by  the  sublimest  sentiments,  faithful  unto  death,  you  went 
forth,  not  to  subjugate,  not  to  enslave,  not  to  tear  down,  but  to  rescue, 
to  uplift,  and  to  make  the  name  of  that  liberty  for  which  Warren  died 
and  to  preserve  which  Lincoln  gave  the  full  measure  of  his  devotion; 
in  the  name  of  all  we  are  and  hope  to  be, — the  glorious  present  and 
the  grander  future, — we  bow  to-day  and  pay  you  the  poor  tribute  of  our 
love  and  tears. 

All  hail  to  the  saviors  of  this  beloved  land!  Humbly  we  lay  our 
offerings  on  the  dead.  Reverently  we  invoke  the  blessing  of  Almighty 
God  on  the  declining  years  of  the  living.  Long  may  their  eyes  be 
gladdened  by  the  flag  they  saved;  long  may  their  hearts  be  consoled 
by  the  assurance  that,  while  the  monuments  reared  to  haughty  pride 
and  selfish  ambition  sink  beneath  the  despoiling  hand  of  time,  the  sol- 
dier's humble  grave,  though  unadorned  by  costly  urn  or  marble  shaft, 
will  forever  be  his  country's  hallowed  ground,  where  future  patriots 
shall  come  to  rekindle  the  fires  of  their  devotion  and  to  renew  and 
reaffirm  their  allegiance  to  the  land  by  his  sacrifices  made  truly,  grandly 
free.  And  so  we  bow  before  the  heroes  who  saved  our  country;  we 
stand  uncovered  beside  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  who  died  in  her 
sacred  cause.  Peace  and  honor  to  the  living;  honor  and  peace  to 
the  dead. 

The  Civil  War,  of  the  sad  ravages  and  awful  agony  of  which  we  are 
this  day  reminded,  was  the  inevitable  result  of  the  "irrepressible  con- 
flict between  opposing  and  enduring  forces," — between  freedom  and 
slavery. 

Removed  sufficiently  from  those  troublous  days  to  look  at  facts 
calmly  and  to  speak  of  them  without  anger,  let  us  be  just,  let  us  be 
truthful.  The  courts  had  exalted  slavery,  had  hedged  it  round  by  law, 
and  nationalized  it.  In  that  most  august  tribunal — in  that  high  place 
immortalized  by  the  transcendent  greatness  of  a  Marshall  and  the 
unfathomed  learning  of  a  Story,  which  had  witnessed  the  marvelous 
displays  of  oratory  of  Pinckney,  Webster  and  Choate — in  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States — slavery  met  and  vanquished  freedom. 
The  Dred  Scott  decision  gave  up  this  nation  to  bondage,  and  made  it 
possible,  under  the  law,  to  sell  wives  and  babes  in  Faneuil  Hall  and 
to  call  the  roll  of  slaves  on  the  sacred  spot  where  Warren  fell! 
Thenceforth  Congress  could  not  interfere  with  slavery;  states  were 
powerless  to  prevent  it.  And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  in  the  land  of 
Washington,  Franklin,  and  Wayne,  in  the  land  of  Adams,  Henry,  and 


704  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Sherman,  in  the  land  whose  sons  died  for  liberty  on  a  hundred  fields 
— who  stormed  the  walls  of  Quebec  and  left  their  blood  on  the  snow 
at  Valley  Forge — in  this  our  beloved  land — in  this  republic — slavery 
was  king.  The  time  to  gather  the  bitter  fruit  of  the  accursed  upas 
tree  planted  at  Jamestown  in  1620  was  near  at  hand. 

An  awful  storm,  pregnant  with  death  and  woe,  was  gathering,  and 
the  people  sought  a  leader.  They  were  sore  distressed  with  a  multitude 
of  counsel,  and  they  cried : 

God  give  us  men !    A  time  like  this  demands 

Strong  minds,  great  hearts,  true  faith,  and  willing  hands ; 

Men  whom  the  lust  of  office  does  not  kill ; 
Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy; 

Men  who  possess  opinions  and  a  will; 
Men  who  have  honor;   men  who  will  not  lie; 

Men  who  can  stand  before  a  demagogue, 
And  damn  his  treacherous  flatteries  without  winking; 

Tall  men,  sun-crowned,  who  live  above  the  fog, 
In  public  duty  and  in  private  thinking! 

For  while  the  tricksters,  with  their  thumb-worn  creeds, 

Their  large  professions,  and  their  little  deeds, 
Mingle  in  selfish  strife,  lo !    Freedom  weeps ! 
Wrong  rules  the  land,  and  waiting  Justice  sleeps ! 

In  the  midst  of  mingled  doubts  and  fears,  when  weak  and  timid 
politicians  masquerading  under  the  name  of  statesmen  hesitated  to 
grapple  with  the  monstrous  evil  that  threatened  to  advance  upon  and 
overwhelm  the  last  remaining  bulwarks  of  freedom,  when  the  right 
and  true  path  was  well  nigh  lost  sight  of,  and  lovers  of  liberty  were 
ranged  under  different  banners,  waiting  for  a  Moses  who  should  lead 
them  out  of  Egyptian  bondage,  the  Great  Captain  came.  He  came, 
and  thenceforth  all  seemed  clear.  Simple  in  speech,  plain  in  manner, 
straightforward  in  action,  tender  as  a  child,  bold  as  a  lion,  fearless  as 
a  hero,  at  once  courageous  and  humble,  lofty  and  lowly,  he  came  to 
speak  and  to  act.  Born  of  Southern  parents  who  had  witnessed  the 
depressing  and  blighting  effects  of  slavery,  and  reared  in  the  broad 
prairies  of  the  West,  whose  very  winds  sang  Liberty,  he  realized  the 
curse  of  bondage  and  the  blessing  of  freedom.  From  the  unfelled 
forest,  from  the  log  cabin  and  the  country  store,  from  humble  forum 
and  obscure  dwelling,  from  out  the  ranks  of  the  people,  the  Leader 
came.  He  came,  and  statesmen  bowed  before  him;  he  spoke,  and  a 
nation  hearkened  to  his  counsel.  Devoted  to  truth  and  the  right,  op- 
posed to  falsehood  and  the  wrong,  scorning  the  tricks  and  subterfuges 
of  the  self-seeking,  and  abhorring  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul  the 
mean  and  base,  loving  his  country  with  a  devotion  that  made  him  for- 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH      705 

getful  of  all  else  save  the  preservation  of  the  Union,  the  incomparable 
Leader  rose.  In  judicial  tribunal  and  halls  of  state,  in  capital  and 
village,  in  mansion  and  log  cabin,  in  crowded  cities,  and  out  on  the 
boundless  prairies  of  the  West,  men  listened  to  his  words,  and  saw,  as 
they  had  never  seen  before,  the  darkness,  the  light,  the  path, — the 
wrong,  the  right,  and  the  remedy.  "You  must  be  either  all  slave  or 
all  free."  These  were  his  prophetic  words.  Who  was  this  man  that 
came  unheralded  out  of  the  West?  Who  was  this  man  that  rose  above 
the  great  statesmen  of  his  day — who  was  as  earnest  as  Phillips,  as 
gifted  as  Baker,  who  was  more  profound  than  Seward,  more  learned 
than  Chase,  more  logical  than  Douglas,  more  eloquent  than  Everett? 
Who  was  he  that  combined  in  one  soul  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  the 
wisdom  of  a  sage,  and  the  foresight  of  a  prophet?  Need  I  utter  his 
sacred  name?  Wheresoever  among  men  there  is  a  love  for  disinter- 
ested patriotism  and  sublime  attachment  to  duty,  wheresoever  liberty 
is  worshiped  and  loyalty  exalted,  his  name  and  deeds  are  known.  His 
image  is  in  all  hearts,  his  name  to-day  is  on  all  lips.  That  grand  and 
lofty  man  was  the  rail-splitter  of  Illinois, — beloved,  sainted,  immortal 
Abraham  Lincoln,  statesman,  philosopher,  and  patriot,  the  greatest, 
noblest,  purest  soul  that  ever  was  enwrapped  in  clay,  to  walk  the  earth, 
— Abraham  Lincoln,  the  emancipator  of  a  race^  the  savior  of  the  Union  1 

Strangely  enough,  the  election  of  the  Presidency  of  this  great  and 
good  and  just  man  was  the  signal  for  revolt.  "In  your  hands,"  said  he 
in  his  first  inaugural  address, — "In  your  hands,  my  dissatisfied  fellow- 
countrymen,  and  not  in  mine,  is  the  momentous  issue  of  civil  war. 
You  can  have  no  conflict  without  being  yourselves  the  aggressors. 
You  have  no  oath  registered  in  heaven  to  destroy  the  Government, 
while  I  shall  have  the  most  solemn  one  to  'preserve,  protect,  and  de- 
fend' it." 

But  the  blow  was  struck, — the  blow  that  was  ultimately  to  destroy 
slavery,  and  make  our  country  free  indeed, — "a  land  without  a  serf,  a 
servant,  or  a  slave." 

The  war  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  the  nation  was  marked  by  great 
battles,  weary  marches,  long  sieges,  and  splendid  deeds  of  daring. 
Brave  men  met  brave  men,  and  gallant  soldiers  stormed  forts  and 
heights  by  gallant  soldiers  defended.  If  America  wept  for  the  folly 
and  madness  of  some,  yet  was  she  proud  of  the  courage  of  all  her 
sons.  We  think  to-night  of  the  mighty  struggle  that  ended  with 
Appomattox's  cloudless  day;  of  all  the  fields  where  saber  flashed,  and 
cannon  roared,  and  patriot  sons  sealed  their  devotion  with  their  blood. 
The  world  knows  the  result.    Freedom  triumphed.    The  Union  was 


706  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

saved,  Liberty  survived,  slavery  perished  and  is  dead  upon  our  soil 
forevermore, — dead  by  the  sword  of  immortal  Grant,  "dead  by  the 
hand  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  dead  by  the  justice  of  Almighty  God." 

Rejoice,  O  human  hearts  and  human  lips,  that  Liberty  survived. 
Rejoice,  O  men  of  the  North,  that  slavery  is  dead.  Rejoice,  O  men 
of  the  South,  that  slavery  is  dead.  Rejoice,  O  sons  of  the  Republic, 
that  the  crown  was  restored  to  the  brow  of  Liberty,  that,  reunited  and 
reconciled,  loyal  and  true,  we  stand  to-day,  hand  in  hand,  heart  beating 
with  heart,  under  the  blessed  and  ever-triumphant  banner  of  the  Union. 

And  thus  may  we  ever  stand, — one  people,  one  nation, — no  North, 
no  South,  no  East,  no  West, — one  altar,  one  love,  one  hope. 

And  thus  may  we  ever  stand, — brothers  in  peace,  brothers  in  war, — 
and  "highly  resolved  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and 
for  the  people  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth." 

And  thus  may  we  ever  stand, — a  Union  of  hearts  and  of  states,  and 
"teach  men  that  Liberty  is  not  a  mockery,  and  a  republic  is  not  another 
name  for  feebleness  and  anarchy." 

And  standing  thus,  the  world  cannot  prevail  against  us  in  war  or  in 
peace. 

Fellow-citizens,  in  this  hour  of  mourning  we  may  without  impropriety 
indulge  ourselves  in  feelings  of  pride  over  «the  glorious* deeds  of  our 
heroes  dead  and  living.  Pittsburgh  Landing,  Chattanooga,  and  Vicks- 
burg;  Lookout  Mountain,  Gettysburg,  and  Antietam;  the  Wilderness, 
Atlanta,  and  Richmond, — all  are  eternal  witnesses  to  the  deathless  valor 
and  sublime  courage  of  those  upon  whose  graves  we  have  .tenderly  laid 
our  flowers  and  upon  whose  brows  we  have  lovingly  placed  the  laurel 
wreath  of  victory  and  peace.  No  poor  words  of  mine  can  tell  them 
of  our  love  or  add  unto  their  fame;  the  one  is  unspeakable,  the  other 
as  broaji  and  all-comprehensive  as  the  earth,  as  high  and  spotless  as 
the  stars. 

Upon  the  hearts  of  many  heroes  who  made  our  country  free— who 
with  their  blood  washed  away  the  ebon  blot  on  our  country's  shield- 
inexorable  death  has  laid  his  hand,  and  the  high  and  the  low,  the 
mighty  general  and  the  humble  private,  repose  alike  in  the  equal  grave. 
All-conquering  "time,  the  tomb-builder,"  is  day  by  day  mustering  out 
the  noble  army  that  went  forth  to  save,  to  make  and  to  preserve  us  a 
nation.  Halleck,  Thomas,  Meade,  McClellan,  Hancock,  McDowell, 
Garfield,  Logan,  Sheridan,  Sherman,  Harrison,  Porter,  McKinley—  all 
have  been  gathered  to  their  fathers,  gone  to  grasp  the  hands  of  their 
comrades  on  the  peaceful  shores  of  Eternal  Rest. 

But  of  him,  the  simple,  silent,  steadfast  man ;  of  him  that  marshaled 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    707 

order  out  of  chaos,  gave  direction  to  mighty  armies  and  led  them  to 
final  victory;  of  him  who  made  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  a  glorious  reality,  and  eternal  fact  which  broke  the 
chains  that  held  a  race  in  bondage;  of  him  who  bore  his  great  honors 
so  modestly  and  meekly  in  war  and  peace;  of  him  who  by  his  genius 
added  to  our  arms  a  luster  as  imperishable  as  his  fame,  and  left  his 
countrymen  the  priceless  legacy  of  an  untarnished  and  immortal  name ; 
of  him  who  was  ambitious,  not  as  a  Caesar,  not  as  a  Napoleon,  but  as 
a  Washington,  with  no  higher  aim,  no  loftier  purpose,  than  to  serve 
his  country,  not  to  wear  a  crown ;  of  him  who  stood  before  uncovered 
kings  and  was  saluted  by  the  emperors  of  the  earth,  but  never  forgot 
his  humble  origin  nor  lost  his  sympathy  for  the  poor  and  lowly;  of  him 
whose  deeds,  from  duty  and  necessity,  not  from  choice,  were  war,  but 
whose  heart  ever  yearned,  whose  voice  ever  pleaded,  for  peace, — what 
human  tongue  can  speak  of  the  spotless,  peerless  General  Grant?  His 
mighty  work  is  done,  his  triumphal  march  is  ended,  his  name  is  for  all 
time.  Reverently  and  tenderly  we  lay  our  flowers  upon  his  tomb  to- 
day; gratefully  and  lovingly  we  breathe  his  sacred  name.  Calm,  cool, 
and  undaunted,  victorious  in  war,  magnanimous  in  peace, — 

Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame,  but  Heaven ; 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories, 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness ; 
To  which  I  leave  him. 

But  of  the  rank  and  file,  of  the  unknown  dead,  what  can  be  said? 
Sleep  on,  O  humble  soldier  boy,  sleep  onl  No  more  shall  the  mid- 
night attack,  the  fierce  charge,  or  the  bugle-call  to  arms  rouse  thee  from 
thy  rest.  Sleep  on  in  thy  lowly  sepulcher,  guarded  by  thy  country's 
tenderest  love  and  pillowed  on  her  grateful  heart.  Whether  it  be  be- 
neath polished  marble  and  sculptured  alabaster  reared  by  the  hands 
of  affection,  or  beneath  the  green  sod  watered  by  tears  of  love ;  'whether 
it  be  beneath  rich,  fragrant  flowers  blooming  in  perennial  freshness 
and  cared  for  by  dear  ones  left  behind,  or  in  the  lonely,  pathless  woods 
where  in  darkness  and  thick  gloom  you  laid  down  your  life ;  whether 
it  be  in  fertile  valley  where  your  life  blood  reddened  the  grass  of  the 
meadow,  or  in  the  intrenchment  of  death,  facing  the  pitiless  storm  of 
shot  and  shell;  whether  it  be  in  the  prison-pen,  where  your  heart- 
throbs grew  faint,  but  your  undying  love  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
could  not  be  seduced  into  deserting  your  country,  or  in  sultry  moun- 
tain-passes where  you  wearied  of  the  march,  and,  fever-stricken,  fell 
down  to  die, — wheresoever  it  be,  on  land  or  in  ocean  depth,  O  humble 
soldier  boy,   sleep  on !     Thy   cause   was   liberty ;   thy  purpose,   Union ; 


708  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

thy  object,  a  nation  purged  and  purified  of  slavery.  Thy  great  deeds 
are  thy  eternal  monument.  Written  on  the  nation's  heart  and  in  the 
everlasting  Book  of  Life  thy  name  shall  live  forevermore,  fadeless  to 
eternity. 

Oh,  the  victory,  the  victory 

Belongs  to  thee  1 
God  ever  keeps  the  brightest  crown  for  such  as  thou. 

He  gives  it  now  to  thee. 
Oh,  young  and  brave,  and  early  and  thrice  blest  i 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest ! 
Thy  country  turns  once  more  to  kiss  thy  youthful  brow, 

And  takes  thee  gently,  gently  to  her  breast, 
And  whispers  lovingly,  'God  bless  thee — bless  thee  now, 

My  darling,  thou  shalt  rest!' 

My  countrymen,  one  and  all, — if  enemies  in  the  dark  days  of 
estrangement,  brothers  now  and  forever, — let  us  rejoice  that  under 
God  we  have  a  reunited  country,  that  the  Union  was  preserved,  that 
Liberty,  crowned  and  sceptered,  sits  enthroned  in  the  constitution ;  and 
with  our  eyes  fixed  on  the  one  and  only  banner  of  the  loyal  heart,  let 
us  reverently  resolve  to  show  ourselves  in  some  measure  worthy  of  our 
ancestors  and  our  brethren  who  fought  and  died  to  make  this  blessed 
land  the  home  of  freedom,  free  lips  and  free  hands,  forever. 

The  dead  soldiers  of  the  republic,  the  heroes  of  the  Revolution,  the 
heroes  of  1812,  the  heroes  of  1848,  the  heroes  of  1861,  the  heroes  of 
1898,— they  sleep  in  glory.  But  what  of  the  living?  O  soldiers  of  the 
republic,  wheresoe'er  you  are  to-night,  on  land  or  sea,  in  frigid  north 
or  torrid  south,  on  frontier  guarding  the  outposts  of  civilization,  or 
in  far  Luzon  defending  with  sleepless  vigilance  the  flag  of  our  hearts, 
God  bless  you  and  keep  you.  Be  of  good  cheer.  Your  country  believes 
in  you  and  loves  you.  If  you  return,  she  will  clasp  you  close  to  her 
heart  and  bestow  on  you  the  rewards  of  peace ;  if  you  fall  fighting  her 
battles,  she  will  be  mother  to  your  children  and  treasure  you  as  she 
treasures  those  who  preserved  the  flag  you  have  lifted  and  hold  on  high. 

My  countrymen,  the  heroes  of  every  battlefield  of  the  republic — from 
Bunker  Hill  to  Santiago— look  down  to-night  from  their  portals  of 
eternal  light  and  beseech  us  to  be  true  to  the  principles  in  vindication 
of  which  they  died.  Nay,  more:  from  every  land  made  sacred  by 
heroism,  from  every  dungeon  of  agony  and  death  where  truth  has  suf- 
fered on  the  rack  for  conscience'  sake,  from  Marathon  and  Ther- 
mopylae, from  Runnymede  and  Bannockburn,  from  the  graves  of  Kos- 
ciusko and  Hampden,  from  the  scaffolds  of  Sidney  and  Emmet,  comes 
a  voice  beseeching  us  to  be  faithful  to  our  mission,  to  guard  jealously 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH    709 

the  citadel  of  Liberty,  and  to  vindicate  by  our  wisdom  and  righteous- 
ness and  justice  the  holy  cause  of  Freedom. 

Oh!  can  we  stand  unmoved  when  thus  addressed?  Let  us  heed 
these  warning  voices  and  hearken  to  these  solemn  admonitions,  and 
here  and  now,  on  this  Memorial  Day,  with  all  the  memories  and  les- 
sons of  the  past  fresh  in  our  hearts,  let  us  renew  our  devotion  and 
reaffirm  our  allegiance  to  the  cause  of  Liberty  and  Union,  let  us  re- 
dedicate  and  reconsecrate  ourselves  to  the  service  of  our  Country. 

How  shall,  we  fittingly  commemorate  the  honored  dead?  When 
Greece  was  threatened  by  the  Persian  army,  Athens  sent  out  a  handful 
of  her  bravest  sons  to  meet  the  myriad  hosts  of  Darius.  Oh!  the 
intrepid  courage,  the  sublime  patriotism,  of  that  Grecian  band  as  they 
advanced  across  the  plain  of  Marathon  with  leveled  spears  to  fall  upon 
the  heathen  horde  that  came  to  plunder  and  destroy.  To  commemorate 
the  splendid  victory  of  Miltiades  over  Darius,  of  enlightened  civiliza- 
tion over  brutish  barbarism,  the  Athenians  erected  a  mound  on  that 
historic  plain,  and  as  a  special  and  the  highest  mark  of  honor  buried 
their  heroes  where  they  had  fallen.  The  light  of  Athens  has  gone 
out  forever;  her  glory  has  departed,  never  to  return;  her  power  has 
vanished,  never  to  be  regained;  the  voice  of  her  sublime  philosophers 
and  peerless  orators  is  heard  no  more;  the  language  of  Homer  and 
Demosthenes  lives  only  in  immortal  type,  the  priceless  heritage  of  the 
human  race;  the  matchless  art  of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles  is  of  the  past, 
and  the  unapproached  masterpieces  of  the  Parthenon  have  been  eaten 
away  by  the  gnawing  tooth  of  irreverent  time;  a  melancholy  gloom  of 
utter  desolation  and  departed  splendor  broods  over  the  "City  of  the 
Violet  Crown,"  the  once  first  and  proudest  city  in  the  world.  But, 
after  a  lapse  of  more  than  twenty  centuries, — centuries  which  have  seen 
the  death  of  the  old  and  the  birth  of  the  new  civilizations,  the  rise  and 
fall  of  dynasties,  the  creation  and  decay  of  empires, — after  a  lapse  of 
more  than  twenty  centuries  the  earthen  mound  at  Marathon  still  re- 
mains, clad  to-day  in  the  flowers  of  spring,  an  eternal  witness  to  the 
valor  and  heroism  of  Athens,  a  solemn  reminder  that  those  who  die 
in  defense  of  Liberty  and  Country  shall  not  perish  from  the  memory 
of  men. 

Let  the  monument  to  our  heroes  be  the  land  they  saved,  domed  and 
canopied  by  the  heavens  that  smiled  upon  their  cause.  For  so  long  as 
the  sun  in  his  coming  kisses  and  glorifies  that  blessed  banner,  or, 
sinking,  burnishes  our  mountain  tops  with  crimson  gold;  so  long  as 
yonder  waves  roll  inward  to  break  and  die  upon  the  shore;  so  long 
as  the  American  heart  beats  to  the  transports  of  a  true  and  lofty  pa- 


710  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

triotism,  or  man  has  aspirations  of  light  and  liberty;  so  long  as  the 
nation  lives;  so  long  as  the  flag  of  Washington  and  Lincoln  is  in  the 
sky, — even  so  long  will  our  heroes'  fame  survive  and  be  an  inspira- 
tion to  the  Union's  sons  forever  and  forever. 

SENATOR  VEST'S  EULOGY  ON  THE  DOG 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Jury:  The  best  friend  a  man  has  in  this  world 
may  turn  against  him  and  become  his  enemy.  His  son  and  daughter 
that  he  has  reared  with  loving  care  may  become  ungrateful.  Those 
who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  us,  those  whom  we  trust  with  our 
happiness  and  our  good  name,  may  become  traitors  to  their  faith. 
The  money  that  a  man  has  he  may  lose.  It  flies  away  from  him  when 
he  may  need  it  most.  Man's  reputation  may  be  sacrificed  in  a  moment 
of  ill  considered  action.  The  people  who  are  prone  to  fall  on  their 
knees  and  do  us  honor  when  success  is  with  us  may  be  the  first  to  throw 
the  stone  of  malice  when  failure  settles  its  cloud  upon  our  heads. 
The  one  absolutely  unselfish  friend  a  man  may  have  in  this  selfish 
world,  the  one  that  never  deserts  him,  the  one  that  never  proves  un- 
grateful or  treacherous,  is  the  dog. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Jury:  A  man's  dog  stands  by  him  in  prosperity 
and  poverty,  in  health  and  in  sickness.  He  will  sleep  on  the  cold 
ground,  when  the  wintry  winds  blow  and  the  snow  drives  fiercely,  if 
only  he  may  be  near  his  master's  side.  He  will  kiss  the  hand  that  has 
no  food  to  offer,  he  will  lick  the  wounds  and  sores  that  come  in  en- 
counter with  the  roughness  of  the  world.  He  guards  the  sleep  of  his 
pauper  master  as  if  he  were  a  prince. 

"When  all  other  friends  desert,  he  remains.  When  riches  take 
wings  and  reputation  falls  to  pieces  he  is  as  constant  in  his  love  as  the 
sun  in  its  journey  through  the  heavens.  If  fortune  drives  the  master 
forth  an  outcast  into  the  world,  friendless  and  homeless,  the  faithful 
dog  asks  no  higher  privilege  than  that  of  accompanying  him,  to  guard 
him  against  danger,  to  fight  against  his  enemies,  and  when  the  last 
scene  of  all  comes  and  death  takes  his  master  in  its  embrace  and  his 
body  is  laid  away  in  the  cold  ground,  no  matter  if  all  other  friends 
pursue  their  way,  there  by  his  graveside  will  the  noble  dog  be  found, 
his  head  between  his  paws  and  his  eyes  sad,  but  open  in  alert  watch- 
fulness, faithful  and  true  even  to  death." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PRACTICAL  SUGGESTIONS  FOR  THE  AFTER-DINNER 
SPEAKER 

The  practice  of  speaking  at  the  banquet  table  is  an  ancient 
custom.  In  modern  life  it  is  the  most  universally  used  form 
of  public  speaking.  Every  educated  man  and  woman  sooner 
or  later  will  be  expecjted  to  take  part  in  post-prandial  occa- 
sions. This  need  not  be  an  irksome  task  for  any  provided  they 
consider  carefully  a  few  vital  essentials,  keeping  in  mind  that 
the  after-dinner  speech  is  primarily  to  please.  If  it  ever  be 
to  instruct,  it  is  that  kind  of  instruction  which  comes  by  the 
stimulation  of  our  higher  sensibilities. 

Essentials : 

1.  Have  something  worth  while  to  say. 

2.  This  something  must  be  appropriate  to  the  occasion  and 
to  the  guests. 

3.  Know  who  are  to  be  present  and  who  are  to  speak. 

4.  Know  how  much  time  is  allotted  you. 

5.  Strive  your  utmost  to  enjoy  yourself  and  let  what  you 
say  appear  as  a  spontaneous  outgrowth  of  your  environment. 

6.  Avoid  using  old  jokes  and  hackneyed  quotations. 

7.  Avoid  stiff  formality.  Radiate  kindliness  and  good  fel- 
lowship toward  all. 

8.  Do  not  apologize.  Let  your  appreciations  and  the  fact 
that  "some  one  else  could  have  responded  better,"  that  "you 
are  unprepared,"  etc.,  be  taken  for  granted.  Don't  waste  time 
on  these  follies.     Get  down  to  business. 

9.  Have  your  speech  carefully  prepared  and  stick  to  it. 

711 


712  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

10.  Remember  that  this  is  a  time  that  reveals  your  true  self, 
so  let  the  best  in  you  shine  forth. 

Let  us  discuss  more  fully  some  of  the  more  important  essen- 
tials. One  should  never  begin  his  speech  with  an  apology. 
How  boresome  it  is  to  hear  a  speaker  express  surprise  at  being 
called  upon;  regretting  he  is  totally  unprepared;  telling  us 
that  some  one  else  could  have  spoken  on  this  subject  far  bet- 
ter than  he,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  This  is  never  in  place  and  it  is  never 
necessary.  On  one  occasion  many  prominent  men  and  women 
were  banqueting  together  in  Chicago.  Dr.  George  Vincent, 
then  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  the  University  of  Chicago, 
an  orator  himself  of  no  mean  ability,  was  toastmaster.  A 
program  of  unusual  length  had  been  prepared.  Under  any 
ordinary  chairman  it  would  have  kept  the  guests  there  until 
morning.  Dr.  Vincent  arose,  and  in  a  clear,  brief  and  terse 
introduction  called  attention  to  the  long  program.  Then  he 
said,  addressing  the  speakers  who  sat  at  his  table :  "Each  of 
you  can  give  us  the  heart  of  your  message  in  three,  certainly 
not  more  than  four  minutes.  I  shall  expect  you,  therefore,  to 
go  right  to  the  heart  of  your  subject.  We  will  take  it  for 
granted  that  you  are  not  prepared,  that  some  one  else  could 
do  better  than  you,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  apologetic  introduc- 
tions. The  moment  your  time  is  up  I  shall  bring  down  the 
gavel  as  a  forceful  reminder  that  you  must  stop." 

The  result  was  wonderful.  Every  speaker  did  as  the  chair- 
man required.  The  audience  heard  a  dozen  or  more  bright, 
snappy  addresses,  full  of  thought  and  wit,  with  scarcely  a  re- 
dundant word.  What  otherwise  would  have  been  a  long, 
tedious  and  wholly  wearisome  occasion  was  converted  into  a 
function  of  grace,  a  noble  inspiration  and  a  never-to-be-for- 
gotten spiritual  uplift. 

Let  the  after-dinner  speaker  note  that  his  speech  should 
seem  to  grow  naturally  out  of  the  environment  and  fit  the 
occasion  and  the  guests — that  is,  it   should  be  appropriate. 


ORATORIC  READING  AND  PUBLIC  SPEECH     713 

The  mannner  of  presenting  it  should  be  genial  and  kindly. 
This  is  no  time  or  place  to  give  vent  to  any  personal  animosity 
or  didacticism.  There  is  no  disposition,  Nature  says,  for  a 
man  with  a  well-filled  stomach  to  digest  heavy  intellectual  food. 
He  would  much  rather  be  amused  and  entertained — that  is,  the 
occasion  is  a  convivial  one.  Do  not  mistake  this  to  mean  triv- 
iality. Above  all  things,  whatever  you  say  or  whatever  you 
do,  do  not  be  frivolous.  And  finally  that  indispensable  quality 
originality  should  distinguish  both  the  matter  and  the  manner 
of  each  speaker.  This  may  mean  nothing  more  than  a  new 
way  of  presenting  an  old  subject. 

The  very  fact  that  an  after-dinner  speech  should  be  short, 
sparkling  and  fit  the  one  who  delivers  it,  makes  it  a  difficult 
form  of  public  address,  and  consequently  necessitates  very 
careful  preparation.  It  is  more  than  "to  tell  a  joke,  make  a 
platitude  and  give  a  quotation."  While  the  after-dinner  speech 
is  supposed,  primarily,  to  please,  and  certainly  should  do  so,  it 
is  often  made  the  means  of  conveying  the  most  forceful  les- 
sons in  business,  religion,  and  patriotism.  But  when,  in  con- 
veying these  lessons,  the  speaker  becomes  prosy,  or  fails  to 
please,  he  is  out  of  place  and  should  never  have  been  invited. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY 

Nothing  is  of  greater  importance  to  the  intelligent  and 
thoughtful  man  or  woman  who  would  become  a  public  speaker 
than  the  cultivation  of  the  memory.  Its  pleasures  and  joys 
are  no  less  than  its  importance  and  usefulness.  Well  might 
Richter  exclaim:  "Recollection  is  the  only  paradise  from 
which  we  cannot  be  turned  out."  How  it  brings  back  to  us 
joys  of  sights,  sounds  and  emotions.  One  has  been  thrilled 
with  a  gorgeous  landscape,  a  brilliant  and  vivid  sunset,  a  ma- 
jestic mountain,  a  vision  of  feminine  beauty,  or  an  inspiring 
exhibition  of  physical  prowess.  He  has  seen  the  proud  march 
of  armed  men,  or  the  gathering  of  gay  and  happy  throngs  in 
the  public  play-grounds  and  parks.  A  thousand  memories  of 
sights  bring  back  joys  and  delights  of  other  days.  So  is  it  with 
the  memories  of  sounds — concerts,  symphonies,  stirring  songs, 
martial  music,  and  the  sweet  voices  of  loved  ones  passed  away. 

It  can  readily  be  seen  that  memory  is  the  practical  basis  of 
all  knowledge.  Indeed  there  is  no  conscious  knowledge  with- 
out memory.  No  man  can  think  without  it;  there  is  no  busi- 
ness success ;  no  writing,  no  poetry,  no  literature,  no  oratory, 
no  conversation,  no  music,  no  art,  no  psychology,  no  anything 
of  mental  life  without  memory.  Without  memory  there  is  no 
identity.  If  I  cannot  remember  myself  of  an  hour  ago,  of 
yesterday,  of  many  yesterdays,  I  cannot  be  a  personality.  Life 
would  be  disconnected  and  therefore  incoherent  and  useless. 

A  poor  memory  is  ever  a  hindrance  if  not  a  positive  curse. 
It  is  as  if  one's  legs  should  fail  to  bear  him  up  when  he  starts 

714 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       715 

to  walk,  run,  leap,  or  as  if  his  eyes  should  refuse  to  see,  or  saw 
but  dimly  when  he  wished  to  observe.  It  is  a  never-ending 
cause  of  confusion,  embarrassment,  irritation,  and  loss.  No 
man  in  any  walk  of  life  ever  yet  succeeded  without  a  good 
memory,  and  many  a  public  speaker  owes  his  success  to  his 
always  ready  power  over  this  faculty.  Abraham  Lincoln  is  a 
striking  example  of  this  truth. 

Stokes's  Golden  Rule  of  Memory 

Psychologists  have  not  yet  determined  what  the  memory  is, 
but  all  are  agreed  that  it  can  be  cultivated.  A  few  general 
propositions  can  be  laid  down,  which,  if  faithfully  followed, 
are  certain  to  bring  desired  results.  Stokes,  the  great  memory 
teacher  of  the  Royal  Polytechnic  Institution  of  London,  for- 
mulated his  golden  rule  of  memory  as  follows:  "Observe, 
reflect,  link  thought  with  thought,  and  think  of  the  impres- 
sions." 

Strengthening  the  Observation 

Careful  observation  is  the  basis  of  memory.  To  observe  is 
to  regard  with  attention,  to  note  with  interest,  in  other  words 
to  see  well.  How  many  people  are  there  who  see  well?  All 
persons  who  are  not  blind  can  see,  but  do  they  see  well?  It 
must  be  confessed  that  good  observers  are  rare,  and  that  is 
one  reason  why  good  memories  are  rare.  The  discipline  of 
the  observation  is  one  of  the  most  important  ends  of  all  men- 
tal education.  Teach  a  child  to  observe  and  he  can  and  will 
educate  himself.  Indeed  he  cannot  help  becoming  educated. 
Without  discipline  of  the  observation  one  may  pass  through 
ten  colleges  and  yet  remain  uneducated.  What  is  the  reason 
the  Indian  can  follow  a  trail  so  much  better  than  a  white  man  ? 
His  life  has  depended  upon  his  powers  of  observation.  From 
the  earliest  days  of  his  dawning  intelligence  his  perceptive  fac- 


716  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

ulties  were  aroused  and  highly  developed  by  the  struggle  for 
his  very  existence.  He  was  compelled  to  watch  the  animals 
in  order  that  he  might  avoid  those  that  were  dangerous,  and 
catch  those  that  were  good  for  food ;  to  follow  the  flying  birds 
that  he  might  know  when  to  trap  them.  He  watched  the  fishes 
as  they  spawned  and  hatched;  the  insects  as  they  bored  and 
burrowed ;  the  plants  and  trees  as  they  grew  and  budded,  blos- 
somed and  seeded.  The  tracks  of  animals,  whether  upon  the 
sand,  the  snow,  the  mud,  or  more  solid  earth,  soon  became 
familiar  signs  to  him.  All  these  and  many  other  things  in  na- 
ture he  learned  to  know  thoroughly  in  his  simple  and  primitive 
manner.  This  knowledge  in  his  daily  struggle  for  existence 
came  by  means  of  his  attention  to  details.  Hence  to  the  un- 
trained white  man  his  powers  of  observation  seem  little  short 
of  marvelous. 

Children  from  their  earliest  years  should  be  taught  with 
systematic  persistence  to  cultivate  this  faculty.  They  should 
be  urged  to  tell  all  they  can  see  in  pictures.  A  table  spread 
with  diverse  articles  covered  with  a  cloth  is  also  a  good  means 
of  disciplining  close  attention  and  memory.  Let  the  children 
stand  around  it  and,  after  removing  the  cloth,  give  them  a 
minute,  or  less,  for  observation,  then  re-cover.  Then  give 
each  child  a  chance  to  tell  how  many  articles  there  are ;  what 
they  are ;  and  what  is  their  relative  position  to  each  other,  etc. 
An  intelligent  teacher  will  invent  a  score  of  devices  for  cul- 
tivation of  the  powers  of  observation,  and  nothing  will  better 
repay  her  endeavors. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  used  to  illustrate  the  difference  be- 
tween observers  and  non-observers  by  telling  a  tale  of  two  city 
lads  whom  he  once  sent  out  into  the  country.  One  he  called 
"Eyes"  and  the  other  "No  Eyes."  Each  was  to  go  to  a  cer- 
tain place  and  report  upon  what  he  saw.  The  one  on  his  re- 
turn had  seen  little.  The  other — Eyes — was  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  the  things  he  had  observed. 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       717 

It  is  undoubtedly  due  to  the  development  of  this  faculty  that 
the  har-boys  and  hotel  clerks  are  able  to  call  the  guests  by  name 
and  return  to  them  their  own  belongings. 

Read  the  novels  of  Frank  Norris,  of  Jack  London,  of  Win- 
ston Churchill  or  any  successful  writer,  the  lines  of  any  truly 
great  poet,  and  the  ordinary  mind  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed 
with  the  wonderful  store  of  knowledge  gleaned  from  a  thou- 
sand and  one  sources  possessed  by  their  writers.  Think  of 
the  wealth  of  observations  poured  forth  by  a  Shakspere,  a 
Browning,  a  Goethe.  Every  page  contains  them  by  the  score 
— observations  of  facts  in  nature,  art,  science,  literature,  human 
action,  and  indeed  of  everything  under  the  sun.  Hence,  if 
you  would  be  an  educated  man  you  must  observe. 

Suggestive  Methods  to  Pursue 

To  discipline  the  power  of  observation,  begin  consciously  to 
see  and  then  immediately  to  test  your  own  remembrance  of 
what  you  see.  See  slowly,  see  surely.  Be  sure  you  have  seen 
correctly.  There  is  so  much  uncertainty  in  all  of  our  mental 
processes.  If  it  is  a  pile  of  books  you  are  seeing,  be  sure, 
positive,  that  there  are  eleven.  Do  not  content  yourself  by 
saying  there  are  about  ten  or  twelve  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Note 
their  size,  color  of  their  bindings,  and,  if  possible,  note  each 
title. 

There  are  some  librarians  who  seldom  forget  a  book  after 
once  seeing  it,  and  can  tell  not  only  its  appearance,  but  its  place 
on  the  book  shelves,  and  the  appearance  of  its  neighbors  on 
either  side.  This  is  one  of  the  qualifications  of  an  efficient 
library  assistant.  What  is  true  of  the  librarian  is  likewise  true 
of  other  people.  What  makes  the  difference  between  an  effi- 
cient clerk  in  a  book-store  and  one  who  is  merely  passable? 
It  is  this  power  of  observation  and  memory  which  makes  his 
knowledge  of  books  held  in  stock  reliable. 


718  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

Let  us  continue  our  suggestions.  In  looking  over  a  land- 
scape be  definite  in  your  seeing.  Be  sure  that  the  river  is  to 
the  left,  and  not  to  the  right ;  that  a  certain  tree  is  a  sycamore, 
and  not  a  poplar;  that  the  green  on  the  hillside  is  the  young, 
fresh  green  of  the  dawn  of  the  spring,  rather  than  the  richer 
green  of  the  summer.  What  is  it  that  makes  the  landscape 
artist?  His  power  to  portray  depends  upon  his  ability  to  dis- 
cern and  observe.  The  poet  and  orator  do  the  same,  but  they 
make  their  pictures  with  words  and  phrases  instead  of  'pig- 
ments and  canvas. 

In  seeing  anything,  get  hold  of  every  fact  possible — size, 
position,  color,  relative  importance,  and,  then,  before  you  con- 
clude your  observations,  close  your  eyes  and  reconstruct  the 
scene  mentally.  Do  this  over  and  over  again,  until  you  add 
and  add  to  your  mental  picture  things  you  had  before  failed 
to  see.  Do  not  merely  catalogue  mentally,  but  see  everything 
in  its  own  place,  in  full  detail,  and  in  its  relation  to  every 
other  thing.  A  comparatively  short  period  of  this  kind  of  dis- 
cipline will  enable  you  to  do  things  that  will  not  only  astound 
your  friends,  but  will  be  a  source  of  infinite  pleasure  and,  if 
used  intelligently  in  your  business  or  profession,  profit  to 
yourself. 

The  same  principle  applies  in  reading.  Read  slowly.  Be 
sure  you  understand.  Grasp  every  idea  thoroughly.  To  do 
this  you  must  learn  to  picture  mentally.  You  should  compel 
yourself  to  make  a  mental  picture  of  every  scene  described. 
You  are  reading  Victor  Hugo's  "Les  Miserables."  You  come 
to  his  incomparable  description  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  He. 
tells  us  at  the  very  commencement  that  it  was  the  rain  that 
gained  the  victory  at  Waterloo.  Observation  and  reflection 
on  Hugo's  part  made  it  possible  for  him  to  make  this  declara- 
tion.    Carefully  observe  this  statement  and  what  follows. 

Picture  that  great  plain,  the  undulating  sweep  of  ground. 
Place  the  two  armies,  and  then  see  the  attack  begin  on  Hougo- 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       719 

mont.  Watch  the  changing  scene  with  your  mental  eyes.  Fol- 
low Hugo  as  he  describes  the  general  confusion  from  noon 
until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Now  prepare  yourself  for 
a  great  picture  of  a  tremendous  day.  See  Wellington's  dis- 
posal of  his  troops  on  the  farther  side  of  a  long  hill,  on  the 
crest  of  which  was  a  deep  trench  caused  by  a  road  whose  ruts 
during  the  centuries*  had  worn  down  into  the  earth  ten,  twenty 
or  more  feet.  On  the  near  side  of  this  hill  Napoleon's  cav- 
alry are  ascending — three  thousand  five  hundred  of  them,  co- 
lossal men  on  colossal  horses.  On,  up,  they  sweep.  They 
seem  as  irresistible  as  the  passing  cyclone.  Just  as  they  reach 
the  crest,  to  their  horror  they  discover  this  trench  between 
themselves  and  the  English.  Let  Hugo's  own  words  now  com- 
plete the  picture  for  you : 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  The  ravine  was  there,  unexpected, 
yawning,  directly  under  the  horses'  feet,  two  fathoms  deep  between 
its  double  slopes;  the  second  file  pushed  the  first  into  it,  and  the  third 
pushed  on  the  second ;  the  horses  reared  and  fell  backward,  landed  on 
their  haunches,  slid  down,  all  four  feet  in  the  air,  crushing  and  over- 
whelming the  riders;  and  there  being  no  means  of  retreat, — the  whole 
column  being  no  longer  anything  more  than  a  projectile, — the  force 
which  had  been  acquired  to  crush  the  English  crushed  the  French; 
the  inexorable  ravine  could  only  yield  when  filled;  horses  and  riders 
rolled  pell-mell,  grinding  each  other,  forming  but  one  mass  of  flesh  in 
this  gulf:  when  this  trench  was  full  of  living  men,  the  rest  marched 
over  them  and  passed  on.  Almost  a  third  of  Dubois's  brigade  fell 
into  that  abyss. 

Take  an  illustration  from  the  American  novel — "Ramona." 
Get  a  real  picture  in  your  mind  of  the  appearance  of  the  coun- 
try. See  the  sheep  with  their  lambs  in  the  fields  under  the 
trees.  Determine  what  size,  shape,  and  color  these  trees  are. 
Picture  Juan  Can,  the  foreman  or  major-domo,  listen  to  his 
voice,  so  that  you  can  definitely  sense  what  kind  of  impression 
it  makes  upon  your  mental  ear.  Do  the  same  with  the  Sefiora 
Moreno.     Can  you   see   that   mustard-field   described   by   the 


720  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

author,  where  Ramona  goes  out  to  meet  the  good  Father  Sal- 
vierderra  ?  Have  you  got  a  picture  in  your  mind  of  Ramona, 
and  the  father,  and  how  they  met,  and  how  they  returned  to 
Camulos  together?  Picture,  picture,  picture,  mentally,  until 
every  scene,  every  landscape,  every  character  is  vividly  be- 
fore you. 

This  was  the  method  followed  by  Macaulay,  whose  memory 
was  so  phenomenal  that  Sydney  Smith  called  him  "an  encyclo- 
pedia in  breeches,,,  and  who  used  to  say  that  he  owed  much  of 
his  memory  power  to  the  discipline  he  used  to  give  himself  in 
mental  picturing.  He  never  read  in  a  hurry.  He  always  al- 
lowed himself  time  enough  vividly  to  bring  the  scene  before  his 
mental  vision,  and  once  done,  with  him,  it  was  ready  to  be 
recalled  at  any  time. 

Joaquin  Miller  used  to  say  that  he  even  pictured  abstract 
ideas.  If,  for  instance,  he  was  thinking  of  the  abstract  qual- 
ity of  coldness,  he  would  make  a  picture  of  some  one  suffering 
from  cold,  or  some  wintry  landscape. 

It  Is  Difficult  to  Observe  Properly 

By  this  time,  if  you  have  faithfully  followed  these  instruc- 
tions about  observation,  you  will  have  discovered  that  the  mere 
observation  of  unrelated  facts  amounts  to  very  little.  You  will 
begin  to  see  that  no  observation  of  the  mind  is  simple.  While 
you  are  observing,  you  are  naturally  doing  something  else,  for 
you  are  classifying  facts,  seeing  their  relation  one  to  another, 
recognizing  similarities  or  differences,  contrasts  and  harmonies. 
The  mind  works  as  a  whole,  not  the  memory  separately,  nor 
the  judgment  by  itself.  Each  part  is  dependent  upon  each 
other  part:  they  overlap  one  another;  the  operations  of  one 
faculty  imply  the  operations  of  all  the  other  faculties.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  the  student  must  seek  to  discipline  each 
apparently  isolated  faculty  of  the  mind. 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       721 

In  observing,  it  is  not  enough  mentally  to  picture  what  you 
read.  You  must  go  even  more  into  detail  than  that.  You 
must  observe  words.  Did  you  ever  read  "Martin  Eden,"  that 
wonderful  study  in  mental  development  and  self-analysis, 
written  by  Jack  London,  revealing  in  retrospect  his  own  mental 
processes  ?  It  will  more  than  pay  you  for  the  trouble  of  read- 
ing. Follow  and  practice  what  he  therein  describes.  Words 
are  things,  but  they  are  things  only  when  you  know  them  so 
intimately  that  they  bring  real  concept  to  your  mind  the  mo- 
ment you  see  them.  It  is  not  enough  that  you  can  pronounce 
a  word  properly — that  you  seem  to  know  it.  ILach  word  must 
mean  something  to  you,  and  that  something  must  be  definite, 
so  definite  that  no  other  can  mean  exactly  the  same  thing. 

One  of  the  greatest  dialectitians  of  our  day  was  Monsignore 
Capel,  the  private  confessor  of  Pope  Leo  XIII.  Even  in  ex- 
temporaneous speech  every  word  he  used  was  the  right  word. 
No  other  word  would  have  done  just  as  well.  He  was  once 
asked  how  he  gained  his  power  over  words,  and  he  replied  to 
the  effect  that  when  he  was  a  lad  he  had  several  tutors.  One 
only,  however,  was  a  real  and  thorough  teacher.  He  said: 
"My  first  day  with  him  I  shall  never  forget.  He  gave  me  a 
lesson  in  Caesar,  and  then  sent  me  away  with  six  lines,  which 
I  was  to  translate  and  bring  to  him  in  the  afternoon.  That 
seemed  easy.  When  I  went  to  recite  my  lesson  I  followed  my 
usual  wont — gave  a  free  and  easy  translation,  which  may  have 
contained  the  sense  of  the  original,  or  may  not.  He  heard  me 
through  without  a  word.  Then  he  began  a  dissection  of  my 
method  of  translation  that  made  my  hair  stand  on  end,  every 
drop  of  my  blood  tingle,  every  faculty  of  my  brain  respond, 
every  power  of  my  soul  awaken  to  a  sense  of  the  hitherto  un- 
told, undreamed  of,  unbounded  capacities  of  words.  That  man 
was  a  genius  in  quickening  a  lad's  dormant  faculties  into  living, 
driving,  whipping  forces  for  good.  He  took  each  word  of  the 
original  and  demanded  that  I  find  its  equivalent  in  English,  and 


722  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

he  showed  me  how  to  do  it.  I  must  never  take  to  him  an  Eng- 
lish word  whose  original  parentage  I  could  not  trace.  I  must 
know  all  its  mutations  and  their  whys  and  wherefores.  There 
could  be  no  such  thing  as  a  free  translation.  It  was  either  a 
strictly  literal  translation  or  my  version,  lazy  or  otherwise,  in 
another  language  from  that  in  which  the  author  had  written. 
From  that  day  on,  I  began  the  study  of  words.  I  learned  how 
to  trace  the  history  of  words ;  the  changes  that  had  come  into 
their  meanings,  and  my  teacher  helped  me  to  do  it  during  the 
whole  of  the  time  I  was  in  his  hands.  To  him  I  owe  what- 
ever power  I  possess  to-day." 

Read  Trench's  book  on  words  and  then  study  John  Ruskin's 
"Sesame  and  Lilies."  Get  hold  of  all  the  modern  books  on  the 
subject.  Read  Shelley,  Keats,  George  Sterling,  Browning, 
Swinburne — any  author  who  has  great  felicity  of  phrase,  rare 
delicacy  of  expression,  and  seek  to  discover  his  secret,  and 
you  will  be  amazed  at  the  potent  force  of  words.  For,  of 
course,  while  words  themselves  are  to  be  studied,  it  is  in  their 
relation  one  to  another  when  put  into  sentences  that  their 
power,  sweetness,  beauty,  charm,  and  music  lie. 

And  here  we  come  to  the  real  work  of  observing.  All  else 
is  preparatory  to  grasping  the  idea  of  the  author.  In  his  idea 
lies  his  inspiration.  The  words  he  uses  may  be  good,  medium, 
or  indifferent,  but  if  we  grasp  his  idea,  his  high,  intellectual 
and  spiritual  conception  and  aspirations,  we  have  gained  the 
chief  thing.  Words  are  a  wonderful  help  in  this.  His  power 
to  arrange  them,  to  give  them  new  settings,  new  and  richer 
cadences,  will  not  fail  to  quicken  our  own  intellect  to  readier 
and  keener  appreciation  of  his  thought.  Hence  words  should 
be  deeply,  attentively  and  earnestly  studied  by  all  authors  and 
speakers  in  order  that  they  may  be  able  to  arrange  them  in  this 
masterly  fashion.  For  this  personal  arrangement  of  words 
and  phrases,  this  flow  and  rhythm,  is  that  marvelous  thing  we 
call  style.    Several  times  in  "Martin  Eden"  Jack  London  refers 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       723 

to  this.  He  has  his  rude  hero  who  is  brought  out  of  the 
streets,  influenced  by  the  love  he  feels  for  the  heroine,  deter- 
mine to  educate  himself.     He  studies  and  begins  to  write. 

He  read  to  her  a  story  [one  of  his  own  compositions],  one  that  he 
flattered  himself  was  among  his  very  best.  He  called  it  "The  Wine 
of  Life,"  and  the  wine  of  it,  that  had  stolen  into  his  brain  when  he 
wrote  it,  stole  into  his  brain  now  as  he  read  it.  There  was  a  certain 
magic  in  the  original  conception,  and  he  adorned  it  with  more  magic 
and  phrase  and  touch.  All  the  old  fire  was  reborn  in  him  and  he  was 
swayed  and  swept  away  so  that  he  was  blind  and  deaf  to  the  faults  of 
it.  But  it  was  not  so  with  Ruth.  Her  trained  ear  detected  the  weak- 
nesses and  exaggerations,  the  overemphasis  of  the  tyro,  and  she  was 
instantly  aware  each  time  the  sentence-rhythm  tripped  and  faltered. 
She  scarcely  noted  the  rhythm  otherwise,  except  when  it  became  too 
pompous,  at  which  moments  she  was  disagreeably  impressed  with  its 
amateurishness. 

Just  before  this  he  said  to  her:  "I  hope  I  am  learning  to  talk,  there 
seems  to  be  so  much  in  me  I  want  to  say.  But  it  is  all  so  big.  I  can't 
find  ways  to  say  what  is  really  in  me.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
all  the  world,  all  life,  everything,  had  taken  up  residence  inside  of  me 
and  was  clamoring  for  me  to  be  spokesman.  I  feel — oh,  I  can't  de- 
scribe it — I  feel  the  bigness  of  it,  but  when  I  speak,  I  babble  like  a 
child.  It  is  a  great  task  to  transmute  feeling  and  sensation  into  speech, 
written  or  spoken,  that  will,  in  turn,  in  him  who  reads  or  listens,  trans- 
mute itself  back  into  the  selfsame  feeling  and  sensation.  It  is  a  lordly 
task.  See,  I  bury  my  face  in  the  grass,  and  the  breath  I  draw  in 
through  my  nostrils  sets  me  quivering  with  a  thousand  thoughts  and 
fancies.  It  is  a  breath  of  the  Universe  I  have  breathed.  I  know  song 
and  laughter,  and  success  and  pain,  and  struggle  and  death ;  and  see 
visions  that  arise  in  my  brain  somehow  out  of  the  scent  of  the  grass, 
and  I  would  like  to  tell  them  to  you,  to  the  world.  But  how  can  I? 
My  tongue  is  tied.  I  have  tried,  by  the  spoken  word,  just  now,  to 
describe  to  you  the  effect  on  me  of  the  scent  of  the  grass.  But  I 
have  not  succeeded.  I  have  no  more  than  hinted  in  awkward  speech. 
My  words  seem  gibberish  to  me,"  and  yet  I  am  stifled  with  desire  to 
tell." 

That  was  her  final  judgment  on  the  story  as  a  whole — amateurish, 
though  she  did  not  tell  him  so.  Instead,  when  he  had  done,  she 
pointed  out  the  minor  flaws  and  said  that  she  liked  the  story. 


724  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

But  he  was  disappointed.  Her  criticism  was  just.  He  acknowledged 
that,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  not  sharing  his  work  with  her 
for  the  purpose  of  schoolroom  correction.  The  details  did  not  matter. 
They  could  take  care  of  themselves.  He  could  mend  them,  he  could 
learn  to  mend  them.  Out  of  life  he  had  captured  something  big  and 
attempted  to  imprison  it  in  the  story.  It  was  the  big  thing  out  of  life 
that  he  had  read  to  her,  not  sentence  structure  and  semicolons.  He 
wanted  her  to  feel  with  him  this  big  thing  that  was  his,  that  he  had 
seen  with  his  own  eyes,  grappled  with  his  own  brain,  and  placed  there 
on  the  pages  with  his  own  hands  in  printed  words.  Well,  he  had 
failed,  was  his  secret  decision.  Perhaps  the  editors  were  right.  He 
had  felt  the  big  thing,  but  he  had  failed  to  transmute  it.  He  con- 
cealed his  disappointment,  and  joined  so  easily  with  her  in  her  criti- 
cism that  she  did  not  realize  that  deep  down  in  him  was  running  a 
strong  undercurrent  of  disagreement. 

Later  he  enlarges  upon  this,  and  also  relates  how  he  gained 
his  mastery : 

On  the  looking-glass  were  lists  of  definitions  and  pronunciations ; 
when  shaving,  or  dressing,  or  combing  his  hair,  he  conned  these  lists 
over.  Similar  lists  were  on  the  wall  over  the  oil-stove,  and  they  were 
similarly  conned  while  he  was  engaged  in  cooking  or  washing  dishes. 
New  lists  continually  displaced  the  old  ones.  Every  strange  or  partly 
familiar  word  encountered  in  his  reading  was  immediately  jotted  down, 
and  later,  when  a  sufficient  number  had  been  accumulated,  were  typed 
and  pinned  to  the  wall  or  looking-glass.  He  even  carried  them  in  his 
pockets,  and  reviewed  them  at  odd  moments  on  the  street,  or  while 
waiting  in  butcher-shop  or  grocery  to  be  served. 

He  went  farther  in  the  matter.  Reading  the  works  of  men  who  had 
arrived,  he  noted  every  result  achieved  by  them,  and  worked  out  the 
tricks  by  which  they  had  been  achieved — the  tricks  of  narrative,  of 
exposition,  of  style,  the  points  of  view,  the  contrasts,  the  epigrams; 
and  of  all  these  he  made  lists  for  study.  He  did  not  ape.  He  sought 
principles.  He  drew  up  lists  of  effective  and  fetching  mannerisms,  till 
out  of  many  such,  culled  from  many  writers,  he  was  able  to  induce  the 
general  principle  of  mannerism,  and,  thus  equipped,  to  cast  about  for 
new  and  original  ones  of  his  own,  and  to  weigh  and  measure  and 
appraise  them  properly.  In  similar  manner  he  collected  lists  of  strong 
phrases,  the  phrases  of  living  languages,  phrases  that  bit  like  acid  and 
scorched  like  flame,  or  that  glowed  and  were  mellow  and  luscious  in 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       725 

the  midst  of  the  arid  desert  of  common  speech.  He  sought  always  for 
the  principle  that  lay  behind  and  beneath.  He  wanted  to  know  how 
the  thing  was  done ;  after  that  he  could  do  it  for  himself.  He  was  not 
content  with  the  fair  face  of  the  beauty.  He  dissected  beauty  in  his 
crowded  little  bedroom  laboratory,  where  cooking  smells  alternated 
with  the  outer  bedlam  of  the  Silva  tribe;  and,  having  dissected  and 
learned  the  anatomy  of  beauty,  he  was  nearer  being  able  to  create 
beauty  itself. 

This  latter  quotation  shows  us  how  Jack  London  mastered  a 
knowledge  of  that  subtle  thing  called  "style."  Every  student 
of  English  literature  knows  there  are  vast  differences  between 
the  writings  of  Johnson  and  Carlyle,  De  Quincey  and  Cole- 
ridge, Ruskin  and  Newman,  Browning  and  Tennyson.  Yet 
each  uses  the  English  language  and  possibly  it  might  be  found 
that  the  vocabulary  of  each  was  not  very  different  from  that 
of  the  other.  Then  wherein  lies  the  difference?  It  is  in  that 
marvelous  personal  quality,  that  individuality  expressed  in  its 
use  of  words,  that  we  call  style,  that  the  difference  lies. 

To  aid  your  memory,  study  and  observe  styles.  Ever  be  on 
the  alert  to  discover  why  an  author  appeals  to  you.  In  read- 
ing Bret  Harte  ask  yourself  why  his  appeal  is  so  different 
from  that  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Browning  from  Longfellow, 
Whitman  from  Swinburne,  Pope  from  Sterling. 

Observation  also  applies  to  hearing  as  well  as  seeing.  How 
do  you  hear?  Carefully,  definitely,  specifically,  or  indiffer- 
ently, generally?  Have  you  ever  sought  to  disentangle  the 
roar  of  noises  you  can  hear  in  the  city's  streets?  At  first  it  is 
a  dull  confusion  of  sound  that  comes  as  one  great,  indistin- 
guishable roar.  Listen!  Observe,  and  you  will  soon  be  able 
to  distinguish  the  clatter  of  hoofs  from  the  creak  of  the  car- 
wheels;  the  whistle  of  the  traffic-officer  from  the  cry  of  the 
newsboy,  or  the  honking  of  automobile-horns  from  the  clang 
of  street-car  gongs. 

Most  people  think  that  only  a  highly  trained  musician  should 
be  able  to  distinguish  the  various  instruments  as  they  are  played 


726  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

in  a  band  or  an  orchestra,  but  any  well-trained  observer  should 
be  able  to  differentiate  between  the  instruments  if  he  so  de- 
sires. And  this  brings  us  to  a  very  striking  discovery  that  we 
should  not  overlook;  namely,  that  the  powers  of  observation 
should  be  under  the  personal  control  of  the  individual.  For 
instance,  if  he  desires  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  music  of  an 
orchestra  of  a  hundred  pieces  as  a  whole,  he  should  be  able  to 
do  so.  He  should  likewise  be  able  to  hear  the  different  instru- 
ments, either  alone,  or  in  their  relation  one  to  another.  The 
power  to  do  this  is  one  of  the  qualifications  of  a  great  con- 
ductor. His  faculties  of  observation  are  highly  developed,  or 
are  naturally  acute  in  this  regard ;  hence,  when  combined  with 
other  leadership  qualities,  he  becomes  a  great  director. 

As  applied  to  hearing  a  speech,  lecture,  or  sermon,  how 
shall  one  observe  ?  Exactly  the  same  as  one  observes  in  read- 
ing— by  concentration  of  attention,  seeing  details,  visualizing 
or  mentally  picturing  every  scene;  listening  to  the  speaker's 
choice  of  words ;  his  power  to  make  euphonic  grouping  not  only 
for  the  sweetness  of  sound,  but  for  their  potency  as  well. 

Hard  work,  this  observing,  is  it  not?  It  is  intensive  and 
perpetual.  The  athlete  must  keep  in  training  so  long  as  he 
desires  physically  to  excel ;  so  with  the  student  or  scholar.  He 
must  not  lag,  must  not  cease  in  his  efforts,  or  he  will  lose  his 
place  or  power.  The  will  must  be  evoked  to  aid  in  such  con- 
centration of  effort.  The  desire  must  be  more  fully  excited, 
aroused,  enthused,  or  the  will  will  not  respond.  How  many 
people  go  to  church,  to  hear  a  lecture,  an  address,  with  the 
determination  strong  within  them  to  allow  nothing  to  interfere 
with  their  observing  to  the  full  what  is  said  by  the  speaker? 
Note  the  turning  around  as  late-comers  take  their  places. 
Watch  how  easily  the  major  part  of  an  audience's  attention 
can  be  diverted.  It  is  pitiable  and  even  ludicrous  were  it  not 
so  lamentable,  because  it  reveals  that  in  the  training  of  our 
youth  strict  attention  has  not  been  demanded. 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       727 


Develop  the  Power  of  Reflection 

We  now  come  to  the  second  part  of  Professor  Stokes's  rule 
— Reflect.  This  word  is  made  up  of  two  Latin  words  re,  back 
or  again,  and  flecto,  to  bend  or  turn.  The  meaning  is  thus 
made  clear.  By  observation  through  one  or  more  of  our 
senses  we  perceive  things ;  mental  impressions  are  secured ; 
these  are  now  to  be  bent  or  turned  so  that  we  can  see  them 
again,  but  the  process  is  to  be  purely  mental.  Reflection  in 
itself  implies  recognition  or  memory,  for  without  memory 
there  could  be  nothing  upon  which  to  reflect.  Every  normal 
human  being  has  the  power  to  bend  again,  to  turn  back,  and 
over  and  over  again  the  impressions  he  has  received  through 
observation.  Hence  reflect  continuously  upon  that  which  you 
wish  to  remember.  Go  over  it  in  every  possible  way.  Dwell 
upon  it,  let  it  develop  within  you  until  you  are  as  familiar  with 
every  possible  phase,  detail,  change,  enlargement  in  it,  as  a 
fond  mother  is  with  the  face  of  her  precious  baby.  As  you 
reflect,  be  sure  your  mind  is  not  playing  you  false.  Refresh 
it  by  referring  to  the  original  again  and  again  if  possible.  In 
this  way  you  deepen  the  original  impressions,  make  them  more 
lasting,  more  secure.  Then,  too,  as  you  look  upon  a  subject 
again — reflect  upon  it — you  get  new  angles  of  vision.  This 
enlarges  your  conception  and  provokes  original  thought.  For 
instance:  Newton  observed  an  apple  fall.  There  we  have  a 
simple  fact  of  observation.  He  began  to  reflect  upon  this  fact. 
As  he  did  so,  fresh  thought  upon  the  fact  leaped  into  his  mind 
and  in  due  time  the  theory  of  gravitation  was  born. 

Centuries  ago  men  observed  the  fact  that  when  a  string  of 
any  kind  was  pulled  tight  and  struck  upon  it  gave  forth  a  mu- 
sical sound.  In  due  time  a  man  or  many  men  in  succession 
reflected  upon  this  fact,  and  the  guitar,  the  banjo,  the  ukulele, 
the  violin  and  the  piano  were  invented,  born  of  the  processes 
of   observation  and  reflection.     This   is  everywhere   seen   in 


728  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

fields  where  the  inventive  genius  of  man  is  at  play.  It  was 
John  Dolland  who  observed  that  glass  made  of  different  kinds, 
or  different  properties  of  sand  and  silica,  etc.,  had  a  different 
color,  and  produced  a  different  effect  when  used  in  a  sidereal 
telescope.  He  reflected  upon  this  fact.  This  led  him  to  ex- 
periment, and  by  and  by  he  discovered  that  when  he  placed 
lenses  together,  one  concave  and  the  other  convex,  and  one  of 
crown  and  the  other  of  flint  glass,  a  telescope  was  made  that 
eliminated  the  extra  and  confusing  images  of  the  object  gazed 
upon,  hitherto  found  on  the  outer  rim  of  all  telescopes.  In 
other  words,  the  achromatic  telescope  was  born — one  of  the 
greatest  helps  to  astronomical  science — born  of  many  careful 
observations  and  long-continued  reflections. 

Another  case  in  point  is  that  of  Franklin,  who  saw  the  light- 
ning in  the  clouds — a  simple  act  of  observation.  He  began  to 
reflect  upon  his  observation.  His  reflections  suggested  some- 
thing. He  sent  up  a  kite  to  find  out  if  there  was  any  possi- 
bility of  tapping  that  inexhaustible  reservoir  of  electricity  in 
the  heavens.  Our  use  to-day  of  the  telegraph,  telephone, 
wireless,  electric  light,  electric  power  in  the  thousand  and  one 
ways  it  is  made  to  do  service  to  mankind  is  the  result  of  those 
acts  of  observation  and  reflection.  The  same  is  true  with 
Luther  Burbank,  who  looked  more  closely,  more  attentively, 
with  greater  concentration,  upon  flowers,  vegetables,  plants, 
trees,  than  most  men,  observed  that  extra  fine  potatoes  resulted 
when  the  flowers  of  the  largest  and  best  potatoes  were  cross- 
pollinated.  He  reflected  upon  this  fact.  The  results  have 
astounded  the  world  in  the  development  of  improved  and  even 
new  varieties  of  useful  and  beautiful  growths.  Also  Darwin's 
observations,  confirmed  by  those  of  thousands  of  others,  duly 
reflected  upon,  enabled  him  to  write  his  "Origin  of  Species"; 
and  when  Herbert  Spencer  read  (observed)  that  book  and 
reflected  upon  it,  and  others  cognate  with  it,  he  formulated  his 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY      729 

^'Synthetic  Philosophy/'  which  absolutely  changed  the  current 
of  the  thought  of  the  world. 

So  it  is  with  all  sciences,  all  theories,  all  working  hypotheses, 
all  steps  toward  complete  knowledge.  They,  each  and  all,  in- 
variably and  unalterably  depend  upon  the  two  powers  of  obser- 
vation and  reflection.  There  are  no  discoveries,  no  inventions, 
without  these  two  mental  operations.  Hence  is  it  not  apparent 
that  no  memory  student  can  owr-estimate  their  importance? 
For,  here  is  a  fact  that  observation  has  revealed  and  reflection 
and  experience  confirmed;  namely,  that  he  who  has  carefully 
observed  the  most  facts  is  the  best  prepared  to  reflect  profit- 
ably. Or  to  put  it  in  still  another  way ;  no  one  can  properly, 
completely  and  successfully  reflect  unless  his  mind  is  stored 
with  many  facts  accurately  and  minutely  observed.  How 
could  Carlyle  have  written  his  wonderful  "Heroes  and  Hero 
Worship"  unless  he  had  carefully  observed,  through  his  read- 
ing, the  effect  of  a  great  man's  actions  upon  millions  of  his  fel- 
lowmen  ?  His  "Cromwell"  and  "French  Revolution"  still  more 
fully  reflect  the  wealth  of  his  stored  facts  (observations)  and 
the  result  of  his  constantly  turning  them  over  again  and  again 
(reflection)  in  his  powerful,  logical  and  imaginative  mind. 
Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  "Ramona"  is  a  similar  result  of  power- 
ful observation  of  the  California  Indians  and  sympathetic  and 
clear-headed  reflection,  as  was  also  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe's 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Hence,  Observe,  Reflect,  with  greater 
and  increasingly  greater  care. 

Thought-Linking 

We  now  come  to  Stokes's  third  requirement — "Link  thought 
with  thought."  Few  things  are  seen  isolated  from  other 
things.  Indeed,  unless  one  deliberately  shuts  out — inhibits — 
his  observing  faculties,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  see  one 


730  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

thing  alone.  Even  the  solitary  star  is  seen  in  relation  to  the 
sky,  and  the  solitary  vessel,  as  it  moves,  in  relation  to  the  ever- 
changing  surface  of  the  deep.  And  it  is  this  natural  relation- 
ship of  one  idea  to  another — and  its  conscious  recognition  at 
the  time  of  observation,  or  later,  during  reflection,  that  one's 
memory  is  aided.  This  is  what  psychologists  have  always 
called  "the  law  of  the  association  of  ideas."  It  is  a  natural 
law,  which  even  a  child  unconsciously  recognizes.  The  baby 
subconsciously  or  instinctively  knows  that  food  and  its  pleas- 
ant sensations  of  comfort  are  associated  with  its  mother's 
breast.  Star  and  sky,  sea  and  ship,  automobile  and  swift 
travel,  gun  and  war,  cyclone  and  disaster,  are  instances  of  nat- 
ural and  simple  association  that  all  people  recognize. 

In  the  cultivation,  discipline,  strengthening  of  the  powers  of 
the  memory,  this  natural  law  can  be  made  to  render  marvelous 
service.  For  not  only  can  man  avail  himself  of  faculties  of 
the  mind  unconsciously  exercised,  he  has  the  additional  power 
of  consciously  directing  their  exercise.  Just  as  our  domestic 
water  systems  are  the  result  of  the  conscious  direction  of  the 
self-flowing  water  in  the  course  we  wish  it  to  flow,  so  is  the 
enlarged  power  of  our  memories  the  result  of  the  conscious  and 
purposeful  direction  of  our  observation,  reflection,  and  thought- 
linking  to  that  end.  Drawn  from  personal  experience  there 
are  five  methods  of  thought-linking  which  have  proved  them- 
selves of  great  help.  These  are :  First,  Incidental.  Second, 
Accidental.  Third,  Scientific.  Fourth,  Pictorial.  Fifth,  Con- 
structive. 

The  Incidental  Method 

The  events,  the  incidents,  of  the  day  occur  in  a  natural  order : 
one  follows  another.  The  days  of  the  week  with  their  re- 
spective incidents  follow  in  natural  sequence.  A  full  recog- 
nition of  this  fact  is  of  far  greater  help  to  the  memory  than 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY      731 

one  would  believe  on  first  thought.  Many  a  man  has  been 
able  to  recall  a  particularly  important  event  by  going  back, 
step  by  step,  incident  by  incident,  over  the  occurrences  of  the 
day.  It  is  related  of  Thurlow  Weed,  the  eminent  statesman, 
that,  when  he  entered  political  life,  he  had  so  poor  and 
wretched  a  memory  that  it  was  his  bane.  He  determined  to 
improve  it,  and,  realizing  the  importance  of  observation  and 
reflection,  he  decided  upon  the  following  method  :  As  the  inci- 
dents of  the  day  followed  each  other,  in  natural  sequence,  he 
would  consciously  note  how  they  followed.  Then  at  the  close 
of  the  day  he  sat  down  with  his  wife,  and  relating  the  incidents 
exactly  in  the  order  they  occurred,  he  would  review  the  events 
of  the  day,  even  to  the  most  trivial  and  inconsequential  act. 
At  other  times  he  would  relate  the  incidental  order  backwards. 
It  was  not  long  before  his  memory  so  improved  that  he  began 
to  be  noted  for  it.  Before  he  died,  he  had  the  reputation  of 
possessing  a  phenomenal  memory.  One  will  find  this  same 
method  a  great  help  in  seeking  to  recall  a  sermon,  a  lecture  or 
speech.  There  is  a  natural  sequence  in  all  well-thought-out 
addresses,  and  the  listener,  carefully  noting  the  change  from 
one  thought  to  another — the  progress  of  the  address — will  find 
it  aid  his  memory  development  wonderfully  to  take  the  last 
thought  given,  say,  and  in  reverse  order,  bring  up  the  thoughts, 
the  ideas  given.  Then  let  the  address  be  "incidentally"  gone 
over  from  the  first  thought  to  the  second,  the  third,  and  so  on 
to  the  end.  Thus  it  can  be  recalled  and  put  away  in  the  mem- 
ory securely  for  future  use. 

The  Accidental  Method 

Another  natural  method  is  what  may  be  termed  accidental. 
It  is  purely  accidental  that  Pike's  Peak  is  14,147  feet  high,  but 
see  how  this  fact  enables  you  to  fix  the  figures  in  your  mind. 
There  are  two  fourteens  and  the  last  figure  is  half  of  fourteen, 


732  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

namely,  seven.  It  is  a  purely  accidental  fact  that  the  two 
Emperors  of  Germany  died  in  1888,  but  the  fact  that  they  did 
die  in  that  year,  the  one  year  in  the  whole  century  when  the 
three  eights  occur,  indelibly  fixes  the  date  in  mind.  Again 
the  year  1666  might  have  passed  by  unnoticed  were  it  not  for 
the  fact  that  that  was  the  date  of  the  Great  Fire  in  London. 

Now  •  let  us  see  how  this  accidental  association  may  fix  a 
relative  date  for  many  other  important  events.  The  Great 
Fire  purged  the  city  of  London  of  the  horrors  caused  by  the 
Great  Plague.  This  plague  was  made  the  basis  for  Eugene 
Sue's  graphic  novel,  "The  Wandering  Jew."  Wherever  he 
went — so  ran  the  legend — the  plague  followed  as  the  result  of 
Christ's  curse.  It  was  the  Great  Plague  that  brought  into  ex- 
istence the  peculiar  custom  of  all  the  Latin,  as  well  as  the 
English,  peoples  exclaiming,  "God  bless  you !"  or  its  equivalent, 
upon  hearing  one  sneeze.  The  reason  for  the  custom  is  that 
sneezing  was  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  the  fearful  plague, 
and  one,  hearing  his  friend  sneeze,  immediately  felt  afraid  he 
was  seized  with  the  dread  disease,  and  gave  vent  to  this  pious 
exclamation.  The  custom  persists  to  this  day,  but  few  know 
its  origin.  This  plague  also  brings  to  mind  a  noble  example 
of  heroism  that  is  worthy  of  enshrinement  in  every  heart.  It 
was  found  by  those  who  watched  the  progress  of  the  plague 
that  it  went  from  place  to  place,  dying  out  here  as  soon  as  it 
appeared  elsewhere.  It  was  this  phenomenon  that  gave  to 
Eugene  Sue  the  dramatic  element  in  his  novel,  for  it  appeared 
to  the  ignorant  people  of  those  days  that  the  plague  actually 
followed  the  cursed  Jew.  A  country  pastor,  an  humble  but 
devoted  and  true  servant  of  God,  in  a  little  Derbyshire  village, 
had  observed  this  fact.  Although  isolation  for  contagious  dis- 
eases was  not  thought  of  by  physicians  at  that  time,  this  man 
seemed  to  grasp  the  idea.  He  determined  that  if  ever  the  dis- 
ease reached  his  village  he  would  endeavor  to  isolate  his  people 
from  all  others  so  that  it  would  stop  there  and  no  longer  con- 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY      733 

tinue  to  slay  its  helpless  victims.  In  due  time  the  plague  did 
appear  in  his  village.  He  had  already  aroused  in  his  simple- 
minded  flock  the  spirit  of  true  heroism,  and  they  pledged  them- 
selves to  second  his  endeavors.  Food  was  brought  from  a 
near-by  town  and  deposited  near  a  watering-trough,  in  which 
a  small  stream  was  continually  flowing.  In  this  flowing  water 
the  villagers  placed  the  money  in  payment  for  their  food  sup- 
plies. Thus  there  was  no  contact  of  peoples,  no  contamina- 
tion. The  villagers  kept  to  themselves,  no  one  going  away  and 
no  one  coming  in.  The  result  was  that  in  a  very  short  time  the 
plague  was  stayed,  and  Europe  breathed  a  great  sigh  of  relief, 
attributing  its  cessation  to  the  goodness  of  God,  when  we  now 
know  it  was  owing  to  the  self-sacrificing  wisdom  of  men. 

But  we  are  not  yet  through  with  our  associations  with  the 
accidental  date  of  1666.  The  most  remarkable  account  we 
have  of  the  Great  Plague  is  Daniel  DeFoe's  "Journal  of  the 
Plague,"  which  for  many  years  was  regarded  as  the  genuine 
diary  of  an  eye-witness.  As  DeFoe,  however,  was  not  born 
until  1661,  five  years  before  the  plague,  he  could  have  had  but 
the  faintest  and  most  childish  remembrances  of  that  dread 
event.  But  it  was  he  who  wrote  the  world-famous,  ever- 
enjoyable  "Robinson  Crusoe."  This  appeared  in  1719,  and, 
while  the  association  of  this  date  with  that  of  1666  is  remote, 
it  does  approximately  fix  the  date  of  the  appearance  of  that 
masterpiece. 

Another  literary  masterpiece  appeared,  however,  much 
nearer  the  time  of  the  plague.  That  was  John  Bunyan's  "Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  which  was  written  in  Bedford  Jail  during 
the  actual  year  of  the  plague  and  fire. 

One  of  the  greatest  lawyers  of  England  was  Sir  Matthew 
Hale,  and  it  is  a  help  to  fix  approximately  the  time  he  was  on 
the  bench  when  we  recall  that  it  was  he  who  sentenced  John 
Bunyan  to  the  twelve  years'  confinement  that  gave  to  the  world 
his  "Pilgrim's  Progress."    On  the  other  hand,  Hale  was  a  great 


734  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

personal  friend  of  Richard  Baxter,  who,  at  about  the  same 
time,  wrote  the  well  known  "Saints'  Everlasting  Rest."  Here, 
then,  hung  on  to  this  accidental  peg  of  the  year  1666,  we  find 
the  following  facts :  First,  the  Great  Fire ;  second,  the  Great 
Plague;  third,  Eugene  Sue's  novel  "The  Wandering  Jew;" 
fourth,  the  custom  of  saying  "God  bless  you;"  fifth,  the  hero- 
ism of  the  Derbyshire  villagers  that  stopped  the  plague ;  sixth 
DeFoe's  writing  of  the  "Journal  of  the  Plague"  and  "Robinson 
Crusoe;"  seventh,  Bunyan's  writing  of  "Pilgrim's  Progress;" 
eighth,  Sir  Matthew  Hale  on  the  English  bench ;  ninth,  Richard 
Baxter's  writing  of  the  "Saints'  Everlasting  Rest." 

Every  novelist  uses  this  law  of  accidental  association,  for 
it  is  habitually  used  by  every  class  of  people.  Who  is  there 
who  does  not  recall  certain  events  because  they  happened  on 
days  when  other  and  perhaps  more  important  events  occurred 
which  fixed  the  date  in  the  mind?  For  instance,  if  an  event 
occurred  on  the  day  of  her  first  child's  birth,  and  the  mother 
was  aware  of  it,  you  may  rest  fully  assured  she  would  have 
no  trouble  recalling  the  date  of  the  event.  Its  accidental  asso- 
ciation will  guarantee  its  remembrance. 

Lawyers  use  this  law  constantly  in  seeking  to  extract  evi- 
dences from  their  witnesses.  The  dates  of  certain  events  are 
surely  fixed  in  the  mind.  Other  events,  less  securely  remem- 
bered, occurred  at,  or  about,  the  same  time.  The  association 
once  clearly  established,  the  memory  invariably  responds. 

The  Scientific  Method 

This  method  is  merely  a  phase  of  reflection,  for  during  that 
process  one  naturally  classifies  his  ideas,  received  through 
observation.     As  David  Pryde  says  in  his  "How  to  Read" : 

See  every  fact  and  group  of  facts  as  clearly  and  distinctly  as  you 
can;  ascertain  the  fact  in  your  past  experience  to  which  it  bears  a 
likeness  or  relation,  and  then  associate  it  with  that  fact.    And  this 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY      735 

rule  can  be  applied  in  almost  every  case.  Take  as  an  example  that 
most  difficult  of  all  efforts,  namely,  the  beginning  of  a  new  study, 
where  all  the  details  are  strange.  All  that  you  have  to  do  is  to  begin 
with  those  details  that  can  be  associated  with  your  past  experience. 
In  science,  begin  with  the  specimens  with  which  you  are  already  famil- 
iar, and  group  around  them  as  many  other  specimens  as  you  can.  In 
history  and  geography,  commence  with  the  facts  relating  to  the  places 
and  scenes  which  you  actually  know.  And  in  foreign  languages,  start 
with  the  words  and  phrases  for  the  most  familiar  objects  and  incidents 
of  every-day  life.  In  this  way  you  will  give  all  your  mind  a  clear  and 
safe  foundation  in  your  own  experience.  .  .  .  The  mind  cannot  master 
many  disconnected  details.  It  becomes  perplexed  and  then  helpless.  It 
must  generalize  these  details.  It  must  arrange  them  into  groups,  accord- 
ing to  the  three  laws  of  association — resemblance,  contiguity,  and  cause 
and  effect.  This,  it  will  be  granted  at  once,  must  be  the  method  in 
all  rigidly  systematic  studies,  such  as  the  sciences,  history,  biography, 
and  politics.  But  it  is  valuable  to  ordinary  people  as  well  to  know 
that  the  same  plan  can  be  used  in  all  kinds  of  descriptions.  Every  col- 
lection of  details  can  be  arranged  in  groups  in  such  a  way  that  they 
can  be  clearly  understood  and  remembered.  The  following  is  the  man- 
ner in  which  this  can  be  done:  In  studying  any  interesting  scene,  let 
your  mind  look  carefully  at  all  the  details.  You  will  then  become  con- 
scious of  one  or  more  definite  effects  or  strong  impressions  that  have 
been  made  upon  you.  Discover  what  these  impressions  are.  Then 
group  and  describe  in  order  the  details  which  tend  to  produce  each  of 
the  impressions.  You  will  then  find  that  you  have  comprised  in  your 
description  all  the  important  details  of  the  scene.  As  an  instance,  let 
us  suppose  a  writer  is  out  in  the  country  on  a  morning  toward  the  end 
of  May,  and  wishes  to  describe  the  multitudinous  objects  which  delight 
his  senses.  First  of  all,  he  ascertains  that  the  general  impressions  as 
produced  on  his  mind  by  the  summer  landscape  are  the  ideas  of  luxu- 
riance, brightness  and  joy.  He  then  proceeds  to  describe  in  these 
groups  the  details  which  produce  these  impressions.  He  first  takes  up 
the  luxuriant  features,  the  springing  crops  of  grain  completely  hiding 
the  red  soil;  the  rich,  living  carpet  of  grass  and  flowers  covering  the 
meadows ;  the  hedge-rows  on  each  side  of  the  way,  in  their  bright  sum- 
mer green;  the  trees  bending  gracefully  under  the  full  weight  of  their 
foliage;  and  the  wild  plants,  those  waifs  of  nature,  flourishing  every- 
where, smothering  the  woodland  brook,  filling  up  each  scar  and  crevice 
in  the  rock,  and  making  a  rich  fringe  along  the  side  of  every  highway 
and  footpath.     He  then  descants  upon  the  brightness  of  the  landscape; 


736  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

the  golden  sunshine ;  the  pearly  dew-drops  hanging  on  the  tips  of  every 
blade  of  grass,  and  sparkling  in  the  morning  rays;  the  clusters  of 
daisies  dappling  the  pasture-land ;  the  dandelion  glowing  under  the  very 
foot  of  the  traveler ;  the  chestnut  trees,  like  great  candelabra,  stuck  all 
over  with  white  lights,  lighting  up  the  woodlands;  and  lilacs,  labur- 
nums, and  hawthorne  in  full  flower,  making  the  farmer's  garden  one 
mass  of  variegated  blossom.  And  last  of  all,  he  can  dwell  upon  the 
joy  that  is  abroad  on  the  face  of  the  earth:  the  little  birds  so  full  of 
one  feeling  that  they  can  only  trill  it  forth  in  the  same  delicious  mono- 
tone;  the  lark  bounding  into  the  air,  as  if  eager  and  quivering  to  pro- 
claim his  joy  to  the  whole  world;  the  bee  humming  his  satisfaction 
as  he  revels  among  the  flowers ;  and  the  myriads  of  insects  floating  in 
the  air  and  poising  and  darting  with  drowsy  buzz  through  the  floods 
of  golden  sunshine.  Thus  we  see  that,  by  this  habit  of  generalizing, 
the  mind  can  grasp  the  details  of  almost  any  scene. 

This  desire  to  unify  knowledge,  to  see  unity  in  variety,  is  one  of  the 
most  noted  characteristics  of  great  men  in  all  departures  of  learning. 
Scientific  men  in  the  present  day  are  eager  to  resolve  all  the  phenomena 
of  nature  into  force  or  energy.  The  history  of  philosophy,  too,  is  in  a 
great  measure  taken  up  with  attempts  to  prove  that  being  and  know- 
ing are  identical.  Emerson  can  find  no  better  definition  of  genius 
than  that  it  is  intellect  constructive.  Perhaps,  he  says,  if  we  should 
meet  Shakspere,  we  should  not  be  conscious  of  any  great  inferiority, 
but  of  a  great  equality,  only  that  he  possesses  a  great  skill  of  using — 
of  classifying — his  facts,  which  we  lacked. 

Herbert  Spencer  was  a  master  at  the  classification  of  facts. 
By  the  classification  of  all  the  known  languages  of  the  world, 
the  scientists  are  seeking  to  find  out  accurately,  as  never  be- 
fore, the  relationships  of  mankind.  Men  have  been  writing 
the  different  languages  of  widely  diverse  people  for  centuries, 
but  never  before  has  an  attempt  been  made  on  so  vast  a  scale 
to  bring  all  this  isolated  knowledge  to  bear  upon  the  solution 
of  one  great  question — the  origin  of  the  human  race.  All  sci- 
entific knowledge  is  based  upon  the  association  of  isolated  and 
detached  facts.  These  are  then  reflected  upon,  and,  finally, 
theories  begin  to  form  themselves  in  the  mind  of  the  student, 
the  philosopher.  He  then  brings  his  facts  and  theories  into 
close  relationship  and  sees  whether  they  "fit."     If  he  is  as- 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       737 

sured  that  they  do,  he  presents  his  thought  to  the  world,  and, 
according  to  its  reasonableness,  it  is  received  or  rejected. 

The  Pictorial  Method 

Most  children  make  mental  pictures  with  great  ease,  but, 
unfortunately,  as  they  grow  older,  they  allow  this  faculty  to 
lose  its  power  by  disuse.  In  the  cultivation  and  use  of  the 
memory,  however,  it  can  be  of  the  greatest  possible  help.  All 
books  of  travel  and  description,  all  novels,  all  history,  are 
made  up  of  a  series  of  word  pictures.  Do  not  be  content 
merely  to  read  the  words  of  these  pictures.  Go  further! 
Actually  picture  each  scene  in  your  imagination  and  you  will 
thus  materially  aid  your  original  power  of  observation.  Let 
your  pictures  be  definite,  positive,  explicit  as  to  details,  for  the 
more  careful  you  are  in  making  a  picture  real  to  your  mind, 
the  easier  it  will  be  recalled. 

Now,  if  you  desire  to  recall  the  whole  course  of  a  book, 
you  will  find  these  vividly-made  mental  pictures  have  a  natural 
order  of  sequence,  and  one  will  recall  the  next  following,  and 
so  on.  There  is  great  joy  in  learning  to  make  pictorial 
thought-links,  and  then  in  the  ability  they  give  to  the  memory 
to  recall  them. 

Methods  of  Constructive  Thought-Linking 
We  now  come  to  the  active  making  of  artificial  links  as  aids 
to  the  memory  where  none  naturally  appear.     A  thought-link 
of  this  type  is  the  generally  known  doggerel : 

Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June  and  November, 
All  the  rest  have  thirty-one 
Save  February  which  alone 
1  Has  twenty-eight,  and  one  day  more 
We  add  to  it  one  year  in  four. 

l  Here  is  a  variant  of  the  last  two  lines : 

"Has  twenty-eight  and  this  in  fine 
One  year  in  four  has  twenty-nine," 


738  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

In  like  manner  how  do  we  remember  the  order  of  the  prime 
colors?  Few  there  are  who  do  not  know  the  coined  word, 
made  from  the  initial  letters  of  Violet,  Indigo,  Blue,  Green, 
Yellow,  Orange,  Red — Vibgyor.  Again,  the  student  of  geology, 
who  forgets  the  order  of  his  great  epochs  or  eras,  might  recall 
them  by  formulating  a  sentence  that  presents  the  initial  letters 
of  the  names  of  these  epochs.  Thus,  "Careful  men  pay  eas- 
ily," suggests  Cenozoic,  Mesozoic,  Paleozoic,  Eozoic.  Of 
course  no  one  of  common  sense  presumes  to  assert  that  these 
constructive  thought-links  are  any  other  than  crutches,  foot- 
bridges over  streams  too  wide  to  stride  or  jump  unaided.  They 
should  frankly  be  recognized  as  such,  and  only  reverted  to  in 
case  of  necessity,  or  as  a  last  resort.  But  it  is  equally  foolish 
in  view  of  the  testimony  of  their  almost  universal  usage  and 
helpfulness,  to  deny  that  they  are  an  aid  to  most  memories. 

Think  of  the  Impressions 

To  "think  of  the  impressions."  This  is  the  final  admonition 
of  Stokes's  golden  rule  of  memory.  One  word  conveys  his 
idea — review.  The  things  to  be  remembered  must  be  thought 
over.  They  must  be  re-collected — again  collected.  You  will 
thus  re-observe  them,  re-reflect  upon  them,  re-strengthen  your 
original  mental  impressions  and  the  ideas  that  have  grown 
around  them.  Experience  demonstrates  that  all  memory  im- 
pressions are  lasting.  One  may  have  forgotten  something  for 
twenty,  thirty,  forty  years,  when  suddenly  a  chance  word, 
sound,  sight,  or  even  odor,  will  recall  it  with  an  intensity  and 
reality  that  are  startling.  All  works  on  mental  philosophy  give 
illustrations  of  this  asserted  fact.  The  practical  need  of  all 
men,  however,  is  to  cultivate  the  ability  to  call  up  mental  im- 
pressions at  will. 

Ready  recollection  is  the  great  desideratum.  Hidden  knowl- 
edge is  of  slight  use.     It  is  as  if  one  had  a  fortune  stored  away 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY      739 

in  some  hidden  dungeon,  carefully  locked  up,  but  he  had  lost 
the  key.  Availability,  readiness,  promptness  are  essentials  to 
efficiency.  The  hat-boy  at  the  hotel  dining-room  would  be 
useless  did  his  memory  not  act  promptly,  instantly.  To-mor- 
row will  not  do.     Now  is  the  accepted  time. 

This  efficient,  prompt,  responsive  memory  is  the  one  you 
need  and  desire.  It  is  worth  striving  for.  The  prospector 
wanders  over  the  mountains,  canyons,  deserts,  for  years,  seek- 
ing the  precious  ore  in  most  unlikely  places.  He  is  always 
buoyed  up  with  the  hope,  some  day,  of  striking  it  rich.  Are 
you  as  earnest  in  your  desire  for  memory  development  as  he  ? 
If  so,  careful,  systematic,  daily  exercise  of  the  various  facul- 
ties of  the  mind  and  memory  will  give  to  you  this  golden  pos- 
session. Reread  here  what  has  been  quoted  earlier  from  David 
Pryde's  "What  Books  to  Read  and  How  to  Read."  The  hints 
therein  contained  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold  to  the  really 
earnest  student.  But  rest  assured  of  this:  If  you  would 
have  a  good  memory,  you  must  work  for  it.  Give  your  whole 
attention  to  whatever  you  read  or  hear.  Concentrate.  Com- 
pare the  parts  of  the  composition  with  the  whole.  Seek  its 
excellencies,  study  its  deficiencies.  Reflect  upon  it  from  every 
angle.  Write  out  in  your  own  language  the  facts;  or  the  ideas 
of  what  you  have  heard  or  read.  Then  use  daily  what  you 
have  gained.  Knowledge  stored  away  in  the  mind  is  not  only 
useless,  it  is  positively  injurious.  Use  is  the  law  of  life.  Give 
your  knowledge,  your  ideas,  your  reflections  away.  Tell  them 
to  your  intimates,  your  friends.  Write  them  to  your  corre- 
spondents. For  the  more  you  give  the  more  you  will  find  you 
have.  There  is  a  giving  that  increases  and  a  withholding  that 
impoverishes,  and  in  nothing  is  this  more  apparent  than  in  the 
giving  of  the  riches  of  the  mind  or  memory.  Each  time  one 
recites  a  well-liked  poem  for  the  benefit  and  blessing  of  others, 
the  more  firmly  he  fixes  it  in  his  own  mind.  "There  is  that 
which  scattereth,  and  yet  increaseth."     In  the  scattering  of 


740  DELIGHT  AND  POWER  IN  SPEECH 

your  gems  of  mind  and  heart,  you  are  increasing  your  own 
store. 

Not  only  give  freely,  but  give  often.  The  daily  use  of  what 
you  have  gained  is  an  advantage.  Avail  yourself  of  every 
reasonable  opportunity  to  use  your  newly  acquired  powers,  and 
your  newly  acquired  knowledge.  Let  me  repeat,  use  is  the  law 
of  life.  To  learn  something  new  daily  is  a  good  motto,  but  to 
use  what  you  have  learned  is  even  better.  You  gain  ease  of 
recollection  by  daily  exercising  the  faculty  of  recollection. 
And  if  your  memory  balks,  refuses  to  act,  compel  it  to  obey 
you.  If  you  make  a  demand  upon  it  and  it  fails  to  respond — 
you  cannot  remember — do  not  let  the  matter  go  by.  Demand 
of  the  memory  that  it  bring  back  that  which  you  require. 
Keep  the  need  before  you. 

In* this  constant,  persistent,  cheerful,  willing  use  of  the  mem- 
ory lies  great  happiness  and  content.  "It  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive."  The  more,  in  reason,  the  athlete  uses 
his  muscles  the  stronger  they  become.  And  think  of  the  ra- 
diant joy  that  is  the  natural  accompaniment  of  a  healthy,  vig- 
orous body.  What  constant  pleasure  is  his  who  calls  upon  a 
physical  body  which  readily  and  willingly  responds !  Equally 
so  is  it  with  the  memory  and  all  the  mind.  Activity  keeps  it 
in  health.  In  this  glorious  condition  it  readily  responds  to  all 
calls,  it  is  radiantly  alive,  and  I  know  of  no  joy  greater  that 
can  be  given  to  man  than  that  in  body,  mind,  and  soul  he  is  a 
radiating  center  of  activity,  receiving  and  giving  on  every  hand. 

In  conclusion,  here  are  a  few  practical  words  upon  the  other 
side  of  the  question,  on  forgetting,  for  there  is  a  forgetting  that 
is  of  great  help  to  the  power  of  remembering.  Fix  these  pre- 
cepts firmly  in  your  mind : 

Forget  evil  imaginations. 

Forget  the  slander  you  have  heard. 

Forget  the  meanness  of  small  souls. 

Forget  the  faults  of  your  friends. 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  MEMORY       741 

Forget  the  injuries  done  you  by  your  enemies. 

Forget  the  misunderstandings  of  yesterday. 

Forget  all  malice,  all  fault-finding,  all  injuries,  all  hardness, 
all  unlovely  and  distressing  things. 

Start  out  every  day  with  a  clean  sheet.  Remember  only  the 
sweet,  beautiful  and  lovely  things,  and  you  will  thus  be  as  a 
human  sun  of  righteousness,  with  healing  in  your  rays 


INDEX 


All  titles  to  chapters  are  in  capitals. 

All  titles  to  selections  are  in  italics. 

Names  of  authors  are  given  in  ordinary  type. 


Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Mid- 
night, 520 
Adams,  Charles  F.,  338,  393 
Advance,  The  Great,  534 
Adventure,  A  Startling,  1.50 

An   Unexpected,  258 
AFTER  DINNER   SPEAKING, 

711 
Ain't  It  the  Truth  (exercise),  35 
Aldrich,  Thomas  B.,  490,  665 
All  in  the  Emphasis,  311 
Alexander,  S.  J.,  641,  642,  643 
Alexandra,  A  Welcome  to,  633 
Americanism,  Cteed  of,  677 
America  and  Its  Flag,  559 

Music  of,  21 
Analysis,  Progressive,  112 
Ancient  Mariner,  49 
Andersen,  Hans  C,  191 
Anderson,  Alexander,  427 

John,  My  Jo,  574 
Annabel  Lee,  430 

The  Lover  of,  431 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  536 
Apple  Blossoms,  588 
Arena,  A  Combat  in  the,  272 
Arrow  and  the  Song,  The,  630 
ARTICULATION  EXERCISES, 

27  et  seq. 
As  I  Came  Down  from  Lebanon, 
587 


743 


Aspirates,  28 

As  You  Like  It  (quoted),  658-59 

At  Grandma's,  391 

Authors,  Study  Great,  2 

Author's  Thought,  Getting  the,  7 

B 

Baby,  Rocking  the,  434 

Bacon,  Francis,  49 

Bad  Night,  A,  131 

Ballad  of  the  King's  Singer,  The 

True,  498 
Banishment  Scene,  662 
Bansman,  William,  538 
Barnes,  W.  H.  L.,  683 
Barrett,  Wilson,  187 
Bashford,  Herbert,  414,  416,  456, 

460,  612,  624 
Battle  Field,  The  Children  of  the, 

452 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  iv,  100 
Belief,  Author's  Purpose,  113 
Bedford-Jones,  H.,  337 
Bell  Buoy,  The,  70 
Bells  of  San  Gabriel,  631 
"     of  Shandon,  636 
"     The  Minaret,  621 
Bennett,  Henry  Holcomb,  525 
Beside  the  Dead,  433 
Betty  Botter,  30 
Bill  and  His  Billboard,  35 
Billce,  Little,  360 
Bishop  and  the  Convict,  The,  22Q 


744 


INDEX 


Bishop,  Justin  Truitt,  142 
Black  Sailor's  Chanty,  The,  408 
Blacksmith  of  Limerick,  The,  503 
Bland,  Henry  Meade,  568 
Blossom  Time,  In,  607 
Blossoms,  Apple,  588 
Booth,  Gov.  Newton,  678 
Boy  Wanted,  A,  285 

"    The  Whistling,  358 
Bosher,  Kate  Langley,  132 

Bravest  Battle,  The,  519 

Break!  Break!  Break!  433 

Breath  Sounds,  28 

Brook  and  the  Wave,  The,  590 

Brook,  Song  of  the,  603 

Brooks,  Fred  Emerson,  331,  343, 
345,  348,  357,  358,  385,  408, 
481 

Brookside,  The,  579 

Brotherhood,  540 

Browne,  J.  Ross,  131,  146,  150,  245 

Browning,  Elizabeth,  19,  442,  539, 
542 

Browning,  Robert,  57,  63,  64,  66, 
99,  304,  305,  321,  429,  548,  627 

Brother,  Little,  \77 

Brown  Wolf,  183 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  53 

Bullets,  The  Song  of  the,  644 

Bumpas,  Bombardier  B.,  423 

Bunner,  Henry  C,  336 

Burdette,  Robert,  24,  148,  157,  158 

Buried  Heart,  The,  434 

Burns,  Robert,  547,  574,  617 

Butterfly,  To  a  February,  642 

Byron,  Lord,  536 


Cable,  George  W.,  204 
California,  606 

Camp-Meeting    at   Bluff    Springs, 
142 


Camp,  Pauline  B.,  76 

Captain,  O,  My  Captain,  171 

Carleton,  Will,  507 

Carmichael,  Sarah  B.,  67,  453 

Carruth,  W.  H.,  469 

Cary,  Alice,  334,  609 

Castles,  Irish,  344 

Catacombs  of  Palermo,  146 

Cavalier's  Song,  The,  473 

Cave,  The  Tiger's,  239 

Champlain,  Legend  of  Lake,  207 

Channing's  Symphony,  324 

Chapman,  Arthur,  587 

Charge,  Pickett's,  481 

Charlie  Jones's  Bad  Luck,  412 

Cheney,  Annie  Elizabeth,  600,  606 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  27 

Child,  R.  W.,  250 

Child  of  My  Heart,  613 

Child's  Almanac,  A,  392 

Children  of  the  Battlefield,   The, 

452 
Chip  of  the  Old  Block,  A,  193 
Christmas  at  Sea,  510 
in  India,  634 
Present  for  a  Lady,  A, 
137 
Christmas  Ring,  The,  348 
Cicely;  332 

Clarence,  The  Dream  of,  501 
Clark,  James  Gowdy,  452,  594 
Classification  of  Selections,  113 
Clearness  and  Precision  in  Speech, 

85  et  scq. 
Clearness  of  Thought,  113 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  49 
Colloquial   Selections,  327  et  seq. 
Colum,  Padraic,  616 
Columbus,  by  Joaquin  Miller,  626 
"  Analysis  of,  105 

by  A.  H.  Clough,  340 
Combat  in  the  Arena,  A,  272 


INDEX 


745 


Combination  Sounds,  29 
Co'n  Pone's  Hot,  When  the,  397 
Conversational  Style,  672 
Convict,  The  Bishop  and  the,  220 
Cooke,  Edmund  Vance,  396,  404 
Coolbrith,  Ina,  433,  535,  538,  604, 

605,  607 
Cooper,  Peter,  585 
Copper  Sin,  A  Son  of,  262 
Cornwall,  Barry,  533 
Coronation,  521 
Correct  Speech,  12 
Corson,  Hiram,  97,  101 
Cor  yd  on,  665 
Country,  My,  575 

What  Is  a,  678 
Courier  of  the  Czar,  233 
Courtin',  The,  399 
Cowper,  William,  66 
Crawford,  F.  Marion,  213 
Creed  of  Americanism,  677 
Crisis,  The  Present,  25 
Croly,  George,  272 
Cuddle  Doon,  427 
CULTIVATION  OF  THE 

MEMORY,  715  et  seq. 
Cupid  Swallowed,  351 
Cup,  The  God's,  643 
Cy  Hopkins,  How  He  Got  a  Seat, 

155 


Daffodils,  601 

Daly,  T.  A.,  437 

Da'  Thief,  437 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  202 

Dawn,  322 

Day  and  the  Work,  The,  637 

Daybreak,  627 

Deacon's  Drive,  The,  345 

Dead  Millionaire,  The,  585 

Death  in  the  Wheat,  A,  279 


Death-Song  of  the  Viking,  506 
Defiance,  Dona  Maria's,  211 
De  Fust  Banjo,  394 
Delight  in  Speech,  12 
Demdest  Gal  I  Ever  Knowed,  414 
Desert  Tragedy,  A,  226 
Desire  to  Express,  14 
Destiny  of  This  Republic,  698 
Dialect  Selections,  285  et  seq. 
Dickens,  Charles,  54,  61 
Dickens  in  Camp,  462 
Directness,  Spirit  of,  672 
Derelict,  The,  612 
Dobell,  Sydney,  621 
Dog,  Eulogy  on  the,  710 
Doing  a  Woman's  Work,  125 
Dona  Maria's  Defiance,  211 
Dora,  445 

Dot  Good  for  Nodings  Dog,  385 
Dot  Long  Handled  Dipper,  393 
Doty,  Madeleine  Z.,  177 
Douglas  Squirrel,  The,  16 
Dove,  The  Voice  of  the,  586 
Dowling,   Bartholomew,   318,   505, 

506 
Down  the  Lane,  581 
Dramatic   Selections,   183  et  seq., 

469  et  seq. 
Dream  of  Clarence,  The,  50  \ 
Drifting,  571 
Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence,  121,  293, 

322,  328,  397,  466 


Each  in  His  Own  Tongue,  469 
East  and  West,  The  Ballad  of  the, 

515 
Education,  Object  of,  1 
Educational  Value  of  Reading,  14 
EFFECTIVE  SPEECH,  6  et  seq. 
Efficiency,    Inventory    of    Speech, 

11 


746 


INDEX 


Eliot,  Charles  W.,  671 

Elliott,  Madge,  285 

Eloquence,  True,  v 

Emphasis,  All  in  the,  311 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  19,  49 

Encouragement,  397 

Enunciation,  What  Is,  27 

"  and  Pronunciation,  85 

Eulogy  of  the  Dog,  710 

EXERCISES,  ARTICULA- 
TION, 27  et  seq. 

Experience,  Reference  to,  113 

Expression,  What  Is,  13 
Desire  for,  14 
Channels  of,  14 

Expressive  Speech,  299 


Face  of  the  Master,  The,  172 

Familiar  Faces,  The  Old,  436 

Famine,  The,  447 

Fancies,  Twilight,  597 

Far  Country,  A  Voice  from  a,  175 

Far  Famed  F airy-Tale  of  Fenella, 

36 
Favorite,  His,  352 
Feel   I'm    Growing   Auld,    Gude- 

Wife,  I,  436 
Fern,  The  Petrified,  541 
Few  Words  from  Wilhelm,  A,  389 
Field,  Eugene,  354,  360,  413 
Fields  with  God,  Out  in  the,  539 
Finch,  Nathan,  440 
Firing  Line,  The,  476 
First  Furrow,  The,  330 
Fir  Tree,  The  Little,  191 
Fisherman's  Story,  The,  456 
Fitch,  Anna  M.,  598 
Flag  Goes  By,  The,  525 
Flag,  Our,  554 
Flag,  Thanks  for  America  and  Its, 

559 


Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall,  322 
Flume,  The  Song  of  the,  598 
Foley,  J.  W.,  392 
Fool's  Prayer,.  A,  549 
Forests,  Windstorm  in  the,  255 
Fortunate  Isles,  The,  583 
Foss,  Samuel  Walter,  339 
French  Camp,  An  Incident  of  the, 

548 
Friendship,  A  Jolly  Good,  568 
Funeral  of  Paradise  Bar,  The,  364 
Furnace   Room,  A   Hero   of  the, 

277 
Furrow,  The  First,  330 
Fuzzy-Wuszy,  417 


Gallant  Third  Party,  A,  362 
Garcia,  Carrying  a  Message  to,  315 
Garland,  Robert,  522 
Georges,  The  Two,  688 
Genung,  676 
Germany,  To,  487 
Getting  Ready  for  the  Train,  148 
GETTING  THE  AUTHOR'S 

MOOD,  99  et  seq. 
Gettysburg  Address,  323,  673 
Gillian,  Strickland  W.,  602 
Glides,  Various,  48  et  seq. 
Glover,  Ellye  Howell,  402 
God,  Out  in  the  Fields  with,  539 
God's  Cup,  The,  643 
Goethe,  102 
Gold,  615,  616 
Golden  Arm,  The-,  316 
Grading  the  Street,  383 
Grand  Rapids  Schools,  76 
Grandma's,  At,  391 
Grass  Shall  Cover  Me,  When  the, 

535 
G,  Swallowing  the,  43 
Gray  Days,  The,  24 


INDEX 


747 


Great  Advance,  The,  534 
Great  Guest  Came,  How  the,  479 
Green  Things  Growing,  601 
Griffin,  Gerald,  595 
Guerdon,  The  Worker's,  322 
Guiterman,  Arthur,  615 
Gunga  Din,  496 


H 


Hale,  Nathan,  440 

Hamlet's   Declaration   of  Friend- 
ship, 656 

Hamlet's  Instructions  to  the  Play- 
ers, 669 

Hamlet,  Scene  from,  60,  61 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  382 

Harrison,  Frederick,  10 

Harte,  Bret,  332,  375,  462 

Haul  Away,  Joe!  407 

Heart's  Regret,  The  Land  of,  638 

Heathen  Chinee,  375 

"        Parody   on,  377 

He  Lifteth  Them  All  to  His  Lap, 
526 

Henshaw,  Sarah  Edwards,  315 

Hero  of  the  Furnace  Room,  A, 277 

Hiawatha   (quoted),  447 

Hieroglyphics  of  Love,  The,  288 

Hills,  The  Joy  of  the,  610 

His  Favorite,  353 

Hoe,  The  Return  of  the,  164 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  66,  625 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad,  58 

Home,  Wounded,  621 

Honest  Poverty,  547 

Honor  of  the  Woods,  The,  198 

Hood,  Thomas,  617 

How  Cy  Hopkins  Got  a  Seat,  155 

Howdy  Song,  382 

How  Oswald  Dined  with  God,  477 

How  the  Great  Guest  Came,  479 


How  the  Water  Comes  Down  at 

Lodore,  44 
HOW  TO  READ  POETRY,  320 

et  seq. 
Hubbard,  Elbert,  9,  315 
Hugh  Go  Goes,  32 
Hugo,  Victor,  220 
Hullo!  339 

Humming  Bird,  The,  71 
Humorous     Selections,     121,     375 

et  seq. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  351 
Hunting,  Whale,  245 
Hunt,  Trovers'  First,  202 
Hurrah  for  the  Next  That  Dies, 

318 
Hymn  of  the  Wind,  The,  570 


I 


/  Feel  I'm  Growing  Auld,  Gude- 
Wife,  436 

//  /  Darst,  413 

//  /  Were  King   (quoted),  220 

//  Penseroso,  619 

Ike  Templin,  The  Misfortunes  of, 
161 

Ike  Walton's  Prayer,  550 

Immigration,  421 

Immortality,  Intimations  of,  618 

IMPERSONATION,  654 

Imph-m,  382 

Impressiveness   of   Author's 
Thought,  113 

Inasmuch,  485 

Inaugural  Address,  Lincoln's  Sec- 
ond, 684 

In  Blossom  Time,  607 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  An 
548 

Indian  Mother,  Song  of  the,  594 

Indirection,  590 


748 


INDEX 


Inflection,  11 

Rising,  45 
"  Exercises  in,  302 

Inflectional  Agility,  48 

Ingelow,  Jean,  622 

Ingersoll,  Robert,  324,  676 

Intervention  of  Peter,  The,  293 

Intimations  of  Immortality,  618 

Intelligent  Reading,  1,  99 

Intelligible  Reading,  1,  99 

INTRODUCTION,  iii 

INVENTORY  OF  SPEECH  EF- 
FICIENCY, 11 

Irish  Castles,  344 

Ironsides,  Old,  625 

Irwin,  Wallace,  389,  421 

Isles,  The  Fortunate,  583 


Jackson,  Helen  Hunt,  498,  521 
James,  George  Wharton,  119 
Jaw,  Exercises  for  the,  27 
leanie  Morrison,  424 
Jim,  Lucky,  357 
lolly  Good  Friendship,  A,  568 
lohn  Anderson,  My  lo,  574 
Jones,  Sir  William,  55 
Jordan,  David  Starr,  560,  694 
losiah  and  Symanthy,  408 
Joyce,  Robert  Dwyer,  503 
Joy  of  the  Hills,  The,  610 
Joy  of  the  Human  Voice,  100 
Joy  of  Reading,  119 

K 

Kaweah's  Run,  275 
Keeler,  Charles,  407,  408 
Kelly,  Myra,  137 
Kentucky  Philosophy,  379 
Khaki,  A  Prayer  in,  522 
Kilmer,  Joyce,  611 
King,  Ben,  327 


King,  Clarence,  275 

King  and  the  Poet,  The,  213 

King's  Singer,  The  True  Ballad  of 

the,  498 
Kipling,   Rudyard,   50,  63,  65,  68, 

70,  355,  417,  471,  496,  515,  554, 

574,  614,  634 
Kissing's  No  Sin,  412 
Knowles  (William  Tell),  68 


Labor,  543,  629 

L' Allegro,  629 

Lamb,  Charles,  436 

Land  of  Heart's  Regret,  The,  638 

Lane,  Down  the,  581 

Last  Tattoo,  The,  552 

Leap,  Peabody's,  207 

Lebanon,  As  I  Came  Down  from, 
587 

Lee,  Annabel,  430 

The-  Lover  of,  431 

Legend  of  Lake  Champlain,  207 

Le  Gallienne,  Hesper,  581 

L'Envoi,  554 

Les  Miserables   (quoted),  218 

Lesson,  A  Singing,  622 

Lesson  of  Life,  The,  582 

Lesson  of  the  Tragedy,  The,  694 

Life-  and  Love,  591 

Limerick,  The  Blacksmith  of,  503 

Lincoln,   Abraham,   66,    323,    671, 
673,  684 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  Funeral,  453 
Man     of     the 
People,  546 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  Walks  at  Mid- 
night, 520 

Lindsay,  Nicholas  Vachell,  520 

Linen,  James,  436 

Lips  and  Jaw,  Exercises  for,  28 

Liquid  Sounds,  29 


INDEX 


749 


Literature,  How  to  Judge,  4 
Ideals  in,  2 
Joy  in,  4 
Necessity  of  Love  for, 

2 
Western,  vii 
Little  Billee,  360 
"     Brother,  177 
"     Fir  Tree,  191 
"     Miss  Study  and  Miss  Play, 

343 
"     Peach,  The,  360 
"     Lady,    When  She  Fell  III, 
167 
Living,  Daily,  2 
Lloyd,  Robert,  299 
Lodot'e,  How   the    Waters   Come 

Down  at,  44 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  54,  59,  64,  67, 

447,  527,  578,  590,  630 
London,  Jack,  183,  259 
Lotus  Eaters,  The,  620 
L'Overture,  Toussaint,  686 
Lost  Youth,  My,  527 
Love,  Life  and,  591 
"      of  Country,  475 
"      The  Hieroglyphics  of,  288 
"      Virtues  of,  22 
Lover  of  Annabel  Lee,  431 
Lover,  Samuel,  381 
Lowell,  James  R.,  19,  25,  71,  399 
Lucky  Jim,  357 
Lullaby,  Mammy's,  602 
Lyric  Selections,  554  et  seq. 

M 

Mahoney,  Francis,  635 
Majesty  of  the  Ocean,  23 
Malooney,  Mistur,  383 
Mammy's  Lullaby,  602 
Mandalay,  614 


Man  in  the  Shadow,  The,  250 
Man  Under  the  Stone,  The,  486 
Man  Who  Wears  the  Button,  The, 

103 
Man  with  the  Hoe,  The,  470 
Markham,    Edwin,    311,    470,    477, 

479,  485,  486,  540,  546,  610,  613, 

637 
Martin,  William  Wesley,  588 
Mary's  Night  Ride,  204 
Mary  Cary   (quoted),  132 
Master,  The  Face  of  the,  172 
Mastery  of  a  Selection,  111 
Match,  A,  589 
Mathews,  Amanda,  288 
McCarthy,  J.  H.,  220 
McClung,  Littell,  362 
McCluskey,  Kate  Wisner,  600 
Mclntyre,  Robert,  526 
McKillip-Stanwood,  125 
McNcal,  The  Ride  of  Jennie,  507 
McTeague  (quoted),  226 
Meadow  Larks,  604 
MELODIOUS     READING,    301 

et  seq. 
Memorabilia,  99 
Memory,  Pictures  of,  609 
M-Made  Memory  Medley,  My,  37 
Mermaid,  Who  Would  Be  a,  73 
Memorial  Day  Address,  700 
MEMORY,  CULTIVATION  OF, 

714  et  seq. 
Merchant  of  Venice  (quoted),  654 
Message  to  Garcia,  9,  315 
Michael  Strogoff,  Courier  of  the 

Czar,  233 
Mighty  Majestic  Mind,  40 
Millionaire,  The  Dead,  585 
Miller,  Joaquin,  105,  465.  477,  519, 

583,  584,  585,  586,  626 
Milnes,  Richard  Monckton,  579 
Milton,  John,  619 


750 


INDEX 


Minaret  Bells,  The,  621 
Misfortunes  of  Little  Ike  Tetnp- 

lin,  161 
Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort,  351 
Mocking-Bird  in  California,  To  a, 

561 
Montague,  James  J.,  330 
Mood- Analysis,  102,  317 
Moo-Cow-Moo,  396 
Moon-Cradle,  The,  600 
Morning,  540 
Morrison,  Jeanie,  424 
Mother  and  Poet,  442 
Motherwell,  William,  424 
Mountain  Mist,  The,  581 
Mournful  Tale   of  the  Snee  Zee 

Familee,  353 
Muir,  John,  16,  255,  258 

"      Poem  on,  569 
Muloch,  Dinah,  601 
Mundy,  Talbot,  50 
Music  of  America,  The,  21 
My  Country,  575 
My  Heart  Leaps  Up,  322 
My  Love's  Like  a  Red  Rose,  617 
My  Rival,  355 
My  Sword  Song,  628 
Mystic,  Song  of  the,  531 

N 

Napoleon  and  Coat  of  Mail,  20 

Nasal  Sounds,  29 

Naihan  Foster,  121 

Nathan  Hale,  440 

Nattkemper,  Leonard  G.,  403,  419, 

420,  621 
Nature  in  Verse,  58 
Nezvbrasky's    Fertile    Shore,    On, 

416 
Newman,  Cardinal,  676 
Night,  A  Bad,  131 
Night  Ride,  Marys,  204 


Norris,  Frank,  226,  279 

No  Shoo  tin'  Off  This  Year,  406 

O 

O'Brien,  Fitz-James,  344 
O  Captain,  My  Captain,  171 
Ocean,  Apostrophe  to  the,  536 

"        Majesty  of,  23 
Octopus,  The  (quoted),  279 
Oh,  I  Dunno,  380 
Old  Familiar  Faces,  The,  436 
Old  Ironsides,  625 
Old  Times,  595 

Old  Woman  of  the  Road,  The,  616 
One,  Two,  Three,  337 
On  Newbrasky's  Fertile  Shore,  416 
Opportunity,  476 

ORAL  READING,  13,  116  et  seq. 
AND    THE 

ART  OF  PUBLIC  SPEECH, 

671  et  seq. 
Order  for  a  Picture,  An,  344 
Orphan,  An  Unthankful,  132 
Oswald  Dined  with  God,  How,  477 
Othello's  Apology,  657 
Our  Flag,  554 

Out  in  the  Fields  with  God,  539 
Outline,  Condensed,  116 
Overworked  Reciter,  An,  156 
Owen,  J.  J.,  537 
Ownership,  605 


Palate,  Exercises  for  the  Soft,  28 
Palermo,  Catacombs  of,  146 
Paradise  Bar,  The  Funeral  at,  364 
Passin'  By,  423 
Pathetic    Selections,    167    et   seq., 

423  et  seq. 
Patriot,  The,  429 
Pauline  Pavlovna,  490 
Paul,  St.,  22 


INDEX 


751 


Pause,  A  Study  of,  311 

"      Kinds  of,  313 
Pavlovna,  Pauline,  490 
Peabody's  Leap,  207 
Perry,  James  Raymond,  323 
Personality,  Pleasing,  12 
Pessimist,  The,  327 
Peter  Cooper,  589 
Peter,  The  Intervention  of,  293 
Petrified  Fern,  The,  541 
Phillips,  Wendell,  686 
Phyfe's  Words  Mispronounced,  88 
Picture,  An  Order  for  a,  334 
Pictures  of  Memory,  609 
Pierpont,  John,  524 
Pioneer  Celebration  Speech,  679 
Pippa  Passes,  Song  from,  57,  58, 

627 
Pisgah  Sight,  321 
Pitch,  A  Study  of,  306 
Pittsinger,  Eliza  A.,  597 
Plain    Language    from    Truthful 

James,  375 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  70,  430 
Poet,  The  King  and  the,  213 
Poetical  Selections,  334  et  seq. 
POETRY,  HOW  TO  READ,  328 

et  seq. 
Poor  Little  Birdies,  The,  363 
Potion   Scene   from   Romeo    and 

Juliet,  660 
Poverty,  Honest,  547 
Prayer,  A  Fool's,  549 
Prayer  in  Khaki,  A,  522 
President  Lincoln's  Funeral,  453 
Pronunciation,  What  Is,  27 
PRONUNCIATION  AND 

ENUNCIATION,  82  et  seq. 
Pronunciation,  Drill  in,  88 
Key  to,  88 
Prose  Selections,  119  et  seq. 
Proteus,  23 


Progressive  Analysis,  112 

Put  Flowers  on  My  Grave,  435 

R 

Rainy  Day,  A,  402 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan,  63,  67, 

571 
READING  AND  PUBLIC 

SPEECH,  1  et  seq. 
Reading,  Intelligent,  vii 

Intelligible,  vii,  99 
READING,    MELODIOUS,    vii, 

301  et  seq. 
READING,  ORAL,  13 
Realf,  Richard,  590,  591,  592,  628 
Recessional,  The,  574 
Reciprocity,  337 
Reciter,  An  Overworked,  156 
Red  Rose,  My  Love  Is  Like  a, 

617 
Redwoods,  The,  683 
Reed,  Myrtle,  172 
Republic,    The   Destiny    of    This, 

698 
Reese,  Lowell  Otus,  438 
Return  of  the  Hoe,  The,  164 
Revenge,  The,  512 
Rhodes,  W.  H.,  688 
Ricker,  R.,  20 

Ride  of  Jennie  McNeal,  507 
Righteous  Wrath,  536 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  71,  550 
Rising  Inflection,  Overcoming,  45 
Rival,  My,  355 
Rivals,  The,  328 
Roads,  The   Old  Woman  of  the, 

616 
Robertson,  Harrison,  379 
Rocking  the  Baby,  434 
Romeo  and  Juliet  (quoted),  660 
Rory  O'More,  381 
Rowan   {Message  to  Garcia),  9 


752 


INDEX 


Ruskin,  John,  3 
Russell,  Irwin,  394 
Ryan,  Abram  J.,  531 


Sandpiper  and  I,  71 

Sand  Storm,  The,  438 

San  Gabriel,  The  Bells  of,  631 

Santa  Claus  Forgot,  Why,  460 

School's  Commenced,  403 

Scollard,  Clinton,  581,  587 

Scott,  John  Milton,  552,  554,  559, 

561,  644 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  51,  55,  64,70, 

305,  472,  475 
Scripture,  E.  W.,  75 
Sea,  The,  533 
"     Christmas  at,  510 
"     Wolves  of  the,  624 
Seamstress,  Song  of  the,  592 
Seat,  How  Cy  Hopkins  Got  a,  155 
Selections,  How  Made,  vi 
Settling  Under  Difficulties,  157 
Serenade,  578 
Seven  Ages,  The,  658 
S-H-H-H!  388 
Shakespeare,  9,  51,  53,  55,  56,  57, 

60,  61,  69,   71,   309,  310,   501, 

654,  656,  657 
Shandon,  The  Bells  of,  636 
Shortridge,  S.  M.,  700 
She  Liked  Him  Rale  Weel,  387 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  51 
Shoup,  Paul,  364 
Sierra  Nevada,  16 
Sierras,  To  the,  537 
Sign  of  the  Cross,  187 
Sill,  E.  Rowland,  53,  476,  540,  549 
Similar  Case,  A,  353 
Simon  Short's  Son  Samuel,  33 
Singing  Lesson,  A,  622 
Sir  Galahad,  475 


Sleep,  542 

Smart,  Frank  Preston,  322 

Smike   (Dickens),  54 

Smith,  Lewis  Worthington,  527 

Snee  Zee  Familee,  The  Mournful 

Tale  of  the,  353 
Sodding  as  a  Fin)e>  Art,  158 
Solitude  Preferred  to  Court  Life, 

659 
Sombre,  267 
Something  to  Love,  538 
Somewhere  Adown  the  Years,  577 
Song,  My  Sword,  628 

"      of  the  Brook,  603 

"      of  the  Bullets,  644 

"      of  the  Flume,  598 

u      of  the  Indian  Mother,  594 

"      of  the  Mystic,  531 

"      of  the  Seamstress,  592 

"      of  Spring,  592 

"      The  Arrow  and  the,  630 

"      The  Cavalier's,  473 
Son  of  Copper  Sin,  A,  262 
Soule,  Frank,  543 
Soul  Sublime,  41 
Southey,  Robert,  44 
Speaker,  How  to  Become  a  Good, 

2 
SPEECH,  DEFECTS,  CORREC- 
TION OF,  75 
SPEECH,  EFFECTIVE,  6 
SPEECH   EFFICIENCY,  IN- 
VENTORY OF,  11 
Speech,  Enjoyment  of,  iii 
"        Expressive,  299 
"        Force  and  Rate  of,  62 
"        Importance  of,  iii,  iv 
Spinning  Wheel  Song,  The,  580 
Springtime,  621 
Squirrel,  The  Douglas,  16 
Stammerer,  Characteristics  of,  77 
Stammering,  How  to  Cure,  75 


INDEX 


753 


Startling  Adventure,  A,  150 
Stephenson,  R.  L.,  510 
Sterling,  George,  487,  489 
Stewart,  Dennar,  432 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren,  631 
Stokes,  William,  319 
Straight  Jacket,  Torture  of  the,  259 
Story,  William  Wetmore,  267 

"      Judge,  698 
Stott,  Roscoe  Gilmore,  21 
Stress,  A  study  in,  308 
Strogoff,  Michael,  Courier  of  the 

Czar,  233 
STUTTERING  AND  LISPING, 

75 
Sublime  Selections  in  Poetry,  531 

et  seq. 
Sub-Vocal  Sounds,  28 
Sunset,  538 
Sunshine,  331 

Sutherland,  Howard  V.,  570 
Swallowing  the  G,  43 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  589 
Switch-Engine  (exercise),  43 
Sympathetic  Reading,  98 
Symphony,  Channing's,  324 


Tan,  Under  the,  527 
Tattoo,  The  Last,  552 
Teacher's  Great  Task,  13 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  50,  59,  66,  69, 

74,  322,  433,  475,  512,  603,  620, 

633 
Thackeray,  W.,  360,  621 
Thanks  for  America  and  Its  Flag, 

559 
Thaxter,  Celia,  72 
Theme,  Mastery  of,  111 
Theophilus  Thistle  (exercise),  35 
There  Was  a  Man,  560 
Thief,  Da,  435 


Third  Party,  A  Gallant,  377 
Thoughts  from  Bub,  419 
Thurru'  Rest,  A,  405 
Thurston,  John  Mellen,  103 
Tiger's  Cave,  The,  239 
To  a  Usurper,  354 
To  Germany,  487 
Tommy,  471 

Tompkins,  Juliet  Wilbur,  193 
Tongue,  Exercises  for,  28 

Twisters,  30 
Tone,  Study  of  Importance  of,  313 
Torture  of  Strait-Jacket,  259 
To  the  War  Lords,  489 
Toussaint  L'Overture,  686 
Tracey,  Frederick  Palmer,  678 
Tragedy,  A  Desert,  226 

The  Lessons  of  the,  694 
Tragic  Story,  A,  362 
Trailman,  The,  569 
Tramp,  The  Young,  339 
Trovers'  First  Hunt,  202 
Trees,  611 

True  Ballad  of  King's  Singer,  498 
Truthful  James,  Plain  Language 

from,  375 
Truthful  James,  Parody  on,  377 
Twain,  Mark,  316 
Twilight  Fancies,  577 
Two  Georges,  The,  688 

U 

Understaendlich,  404 
Under  the  Tan,  527 
Unexpected  Adventure,  An,  258 
Unthankful  Orphan,  An,  132 
Usual  Way,  The,  341 
Usurper,  To  a,  354 


Van  Dyke,  Henry,  4,  57,  71,  72, 
536 


754 


INDEX 


Vegetable  Man,  The,  420 

Vengeance  Is  Thine,  641 

Verne,  Jules,  233 

Vest,  Senator,  710 

Viking,   The  Death-Song   of  the, 

506 
Villon,  Story  of,  213 
Vinegar  Man,  The,  351 
Virtues  of  Love,  22 
Vision  Rises,  A,  676 
Vision  of  War,  324 
Vocalization  of  Selections,  115 
Voice  and  Spiritual  Education,  97 

"      Use  of,  11 

"      of  the  Dove,  586 

"      from  a  Far  Country,  174 
Vowel  Sounds,  Various,  89 

W 

Wagner,  Madge  Morris,  434 

Waller,  John  Francis,  580 

Walsh,  Thomas,  534 

Walton's  Prayer,  Ike,  550 

War,  474 

War  Lords,  To  the,  489 

Warren's  Address,  524 

Warren,  Joseph,  310 

Waterhouse,  A.  J.,  353,  363,  412, 
463 

Wave,  The  Brook  and  the,  590 

Webster,  Daniel,  v 

Webster's  International  Diction- 
ary, 88 

Welcome  to  Alexandra,  633 

West,  The,  600 

West,  The  Ballad  of  the  East  and, 
515 

Western  Literature,  vii 

Whale  Hunting,  245 

What  Is  Our  Country,  678 

Wheat,  A  Death  in  the,  279 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot,  397 


When  the  Grave  Shall  Cover  Me, 

535 
When    the    Little   Lady    Fell    III, 

167 
When  Little  Sister  Came,  465 
When  the  Old  Man  Dreams,  463 
When  the  Old  Man  Smokes,  466 
Where  the  West  Begins,  587 
Whistling  Boy,  The,  359 
Whitaker,  Herman,  262 

Robert,  575,  577 
Whitman,  Walt,  171 
Why?  608 

Why  Santa  Claus  Forgot,  460 
Wilder,  Marshall  P.,  155 
Wilhelm,  A  Few  Words  from,  389 
■  Wind,  Hymn  of  the,  570 
|  Windstorm  in  the  Forests,  255 
[Wilson,  Woodrow,  Inaugural  Ad- 
dress, 675 
Wilson,    Woodrow,   Exercise    on, 

35 
Wolf,  Brown,  183 
:  Wolves  of  the  Sea,  The,  624 
Woodchuck  Exercise,  30 
Woods,  The  Honor  of  the,  198 
Wordsworth,    William,    322,    601, 

618 
Words  Often  Mispronounced,  88 
Wordy  Wabble  on  Women,  42 
Work  and  the  Worker,  20 
Worker's  Guerdon,  The,  322 
;  Work,  The  Day  and  the,  637 
Wounded,  Home,  621 
Wrath,  Righteous,  536 


Yankee  Man  of  War,  The,  523 
Years,  Somewhere  Adown  the,  577 
Yosemite,  584 
Young  Tramp,  The,  339 
Youth,  My  Lost,  527 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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DEC  20  1935 

-i    i      *iQ\& 

MOM  14   w* 

• 

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r'\\ 

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LD  21-100ro-7,*33 

1C  16109 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


